#I had to replace so many property sets

[eulaliasims]

more EF defaults!

more! MORE! i'm tryin to clean out the default projects littering my desktop.

efTopFlaredWaist replaced by @goatskickin's conversion of @pforestsims's Open Blazer with Padded Shoulders. Does this at all resemble the original Maxis top or carry the same vibe? No, but consider this: it's better. It's got pockets.

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efBodySweats replaced by this Goat outfit. I knew it would make the perfect default as soon as I saw it. Available for everyday and gym clothes.

I did not replace the black color, as I'm pretty sure it's a hidden career outfit and also I didn't feel like it.

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[neoneun-au]

IN EARNEST; J.WW

―PAIRING: jeon wonwoo x fem!reader, yoon jeonghan x fem!reader ―GENRE: regency au, romance, fluff, angst, love triangle, childhood friends to lovers ―WORD COUNT: 13k ―WARNINGS: rigid gender roles, historical setting, angst & family in-fighting

―AUTHOR'S NOTE: this fic was rewritten from one on my old blog. it was majorly overhauled and i added around 1k worth of words. its one of my favourites, so i would appreciate hearing any thoughts you might have on it. please enjoy

The long, warm rays of the sun stretch over the fields of your childhood as you sit on the stone fence at the edge of your family’s estate, legs swinging in a manner unbefitting a young woman soon to be engaged. A gentle spring breeze stirs at your hair, blowing over you as it moves westward across the countryside on its journey as you sit, book in hand, wrapped in the warmth of the afternoon light. Words dance on the page before your eyes as you try and focus on the story, pulling your attention into the narrative only to have it drawn back out towards the horizon over the golden fields of wheat and rye. With a sigh, you snap the book shut and slip from atop the rock wall, landing on the soft earth below. 

Skirts dragging against the long grass as you walk, you make your way through the field--wheat stalks brush against your bare arms, parting for you as you stride forward past the cows and sheep and towards an old grove of trees tucked back at the edge of the property by the meandering creek where you spent so many of your days in childlike rapture and leisure. Amongst the flurry of balls, social gatherings, and visits expected of you these days, you’ve hardly had a spare moment to come and sit among the trees for the past few years. Social propriety and demands have all but replaced the imagination of your youth and yet the trees welcome you in as an old friend–beckoning you forth into their shade and kissing your cheeks with the morning dew. 

One old tree, of gnarled roots and rough bark, sits chief among them in the center of the grove. Images of your sister and you swinging from its long branches and knotted limbs spring to mind as you stride closer. Days long past spent nestled amongst its jutting roots for a midday picnic without a care for the mud on the hems of your dresses. With a smile you walk towards the tree, hand outstretched in greeting, and feel your way across the trunk. The knots and rough bark ripple under your fingers--a map of the tree's life spread out under your touch, and you move around it until you meet a familiar dip in the bark. A carving of a memory long forgotten.

Your fingers trace the loops of the heart, the curves of the letters, and a face swims into your vision to join your childhood self as she runs through the fields and trees. A boy of honey brown hair and an even sweeter voice with whom the days seemed to stretch onwards into infinity. A boy you had made promise you at 11 years old that he would marry you when you were both older so that you could live together until eternity. A boy with the spark of love buried in the dark browns of his eyes, obscured by the frames of his wire glasses, waiting for age and maturity to bring it to the forefront. A boy who just smiled, laughed, and chased you through the dawn soaked fields until you both collapsed from exhaustion by the river. A boy who leaned over with a soft smile some long hours later and whispered “I promise.” 

The promises of youth are delicate. They are made in the heat of summer, under the swell of the sun and the naive feelings that blossom in the hearts of every young person as they grow and change with daily discoveries. They are a glass vase, thin and ready to be broken–or simply tucked away on a high shelf to be left forgotten and collecting dust as time obscures them. 

Now, standing in the dawning of  your adulthood in the place of your youth, that promise is but a lingering nudge at the edge of your mind–a loose thread dangling free in the wind, waiting to be tugged on and unraveled. The boy stands with it, a denizen of the memory of a time when the sun shone down on you in smiles and in hope, lighting up your world with the wide-eyed exhilaration of young love.

You smile down at the carved imprint of a heart, transported back for a moment to that time, before someone clears their throat behind you, “what are you doing out here?” You spin on your heels, body moving unconsciously to shield the glyph from prying eyes, and see Jeonghan standing at the edge of the grove–sunlight filtering down through the tree tops and sprinkling him in flecks of golden light. He stands with a wry grin, arms crossed over his chest as he watches you regain your composure after the sudden interruption of your daydreams. 

“Nothing,” you reply after a moment with a light laugh, returning his smile–closing the lid on your memories as you take a step towards him. “Just out for a walk.” 

“Well, don’t wander too far,” he extends his arms for you to take and you accept, looping your arm through his and walking side by side out of the shade of the tree grove and  into the sunlight. “You might not be able to find your way back.” 

“I think I know my own family’s grounds, thank you,” you counter, peeking up at him as he stares ahead towards the estate in the distance, sprawling out over the field in a mass of grey stone. The wry smile has softened slightly, but still remains pulling gently at the corners of his lips. 

You hadn’t known what to make of Jeonghan the first time he stood off to the side of the village ball. New to the community by way of both work and friends, he was a source of fascination and aversion in equal measure by everyone in town. A community where everyone had known everyone and everyone was in everyone’s business made a newcomer stick out like the sorest of thumbs. You watched as he stood, making polite yet stiff conversation with the men of the village and keeping largely to himself  until your mother, not one to ever waste an opportunity, strong-armed your father into introducing the entire family to him. 

He seemed to sense in you a kindred spirit–someone there in a similar situation, bemused but disconnected from the gossip and frivolity of the ball. Placed at the center of it all regardless by mere social expectation and family ties. You spoke for a while, easing minute by minute from fateful acquaintances to fast friends, until you both succumbed to decorum and he asked  for a dance; after which your mother adopted him immediately as a friend of the family and he has not known a moment of peace since. 

A fact which you love to tease him about at any given opportunity. 

“What are you doing out here today, Jeonghan?” You ask as you walk past the cows grazing in the field, arm still tucked securely into the crook of his elbow. 

“Your father asked me round to discuss the merger of the mill in town,” he shakes his head and you laugh at what you can only imagine was an incredibly dry conversation. “Dreadfully boring. Then your mother noticed you wander off into the woods and sent me to fetch you.” 

“Scandalous,”  you tease, nudging your elbow into his side and eliciting a brief laugh. “A young man and woman out to pasture together? Unchaperoned and unmarried? My mother must really trust you.” 

“Yes, well if only she knew that the only reason I agree to come and talk to your father about all of this nonsense is to have the chance to speak with you,” the teasing lilt in his voice doesn’t go unnoticed; you can tell it’s meant as a joke, but there is an air of truth to it as well and the comment sinks under your skin, stilling the air around you. Suddenly, his arm against yours feels too real, too solid. You feel altogether too close to him and yet not close enough. You glance up and see his gaze still fixated forward towards your home, the sunlight gleaming over him and bathing him in the golden light of its rays. 

“When do you return to town?” you shift the conversation, eager for a reprieve from the constricting of your heart in your chest. 

“In three days time,” he replies, releasing your arm to step through the gate into the gardens–holding it open for you to pass through behind him. 

“So soon?” you glance at him in surprise. In the month he had been here, visiting in the afternoons and attending dinner parties, he had not made mention of the date of his inevitable return to town, so hearing the answer now was a slight shock. 

Jeonghan nods, and you loop your arm through his once more as you ascend the stone pathway towards the front of the house. “Unfortunately,” he sighs, “it was meant to be next month but I’ve been called away sooner than I had planned.” 

“I see.” Your voice trails off and you slip your arm free from his as you step through the doorway. A strange sense of melancholy takes over, sweeping the sunshine away from your thoughts and replacing them with the grey clouds that precipitate a sky before a storm. In barely two months time, you’ve come to enjoy Jeonghan’s company and his consistent appearances in your daily life. They became a comfort to you in a way you hadn’t felt from anyone’s company in a long time. Not since you were young, running wild and free without thought of propriety or the looming threat of your future. 

“I was hoping, actually, to talk with you before I left,” he starts, breaking through the clouds in your mind. You can hear the hesitation clear in his voice as he talks, a small shy smile painting his handsome features. 

“About what?” The heat of curiosity builds in your mind, swirling thoughts joining the fray. A buzzing excitement building as you watch him formulate the words–the wheels in his mind turning into place behind his soft brown eyes. He’s building to something, grasping onto a thread of courage and you silently pray that he manages to keep hold as you feel your heart rise into your throat. His fingers twitch at his side, as if fighting the urge to reach for your hand and you feel your skin prickle at the thought. 

“I was hoping–” Jeonghan starts but is cut off just as quickly as your sister, Lydia, comes crashing through the parlour shouting your name, skirts billowing behind her. She skids to an abrupt halt as she sees you and Jeonghan both staring back at her. 

“H-hello, Mr. Yoon, I didn’t–umm,” she thumbs the letter clutched in her hand, nerves plain on her face as she tries to regain some sense of calm after her frantic entrance, “I didn’t realise you were still here.” She offers an awkward curtsy in his direction and you can hear the stifled laughter as he bows back. 

“Hello Ms. Lydia, I trust you are well?” 

“Very, thank you,” she nods, swallowing, and you have to stifle your own laugh at the awkwardness seeping out of her and infecting the room. She turns towards you, eyes pleading, “may I speak with you a moment?” 

You glance at Jeonghan and he smiles, “I should be going.” All hints of what he had been planning on saying before the interruption are wiped clear from his expression and you can’t help the slight bitterness towards your sister that rises in your stomach like bile as he turns to leave. 

“Your mother invited me for dinner tomorrow evening before I take my leave,” he adds, hand on the brass knob of the door, “I hope we can finish talking then.” With a final nod and smile he closes the door behind him–you watch through the window as he walks down the stone pathway towards his horse before your sister calls your attention back to her with a pointed cough. 

“Did he ask you?” she asks, eyebrows raised in curiosity. 

“Ask me what?” you move away from the entrance and flop down onto the plush cream settee at the side of the room–legs grateful for the relief after an afternoon spent traipsing through the fields outside. 

“Don’t be daft, I know that you know full well he is planning on proposing to you,” she sits down next to you in a huff, splaying her skirts out below her and knocking you on the shoulder with a closed fist–envelope still clutched tight in her hand, but evidently forgotten for the moment.

“Oh, I didn’t realise you were in his confidence regarding the matter,” you tease, drawing a flustered expression from her as she pouts at you. 

“I don’t need to be to know,” she grumbles, “everyone says. Especially Mama.” 

The rumours had been circulating since that first ball and you were not oblivious to them. It would be impossible to be oblivious when the gossip that roamed through the village was as subtle as a bull. But rumours were just that: rumours. Unsubstantiated whisperings passed around by bored mamas and nosy servants at parties and in parlours, and you preferred to keep your hopes out of their baseless grasp as long as you were able to. You couldn’t deny, however, that the hope was there. That it had wound its way into your heart, filling your mind and soul with a buoyancy you hadn’t anticipated to feel. 

The thought of Jeonghan in front of you, extending his hand for yours, and asking to keep it forever is a thought that you couldn’t deny having had more than once. 

But you were not going to give your prying sister the satisfaction of knowing this. Instead you stare deadpan at her as she sits with a pout on her face, waiting for a reaction. The standoff continues for a moment in silence before she resigns and sighs, thrusting the letter she had been clutching in her hand towards you, “here, it’s for you.” 

You pluck the paper from and examine the envelope–torn open already by prying fingertips and eyes. “You opened it?” The accusation is more tired than biting, but she cowers under it anyway–crossing her arms in defence. 

“No,” she huffs, crossing her arms over her chest in a decidedly unladylike manner–a habit of which your mother had tried to scold out of her for years now. “Mama opened it.” 

“And then you read it,” you sigh, running your eyes over the script of the envelope. Handwriting both familiar and unfamiliar. A name you haven’t seen in years scrawled in the top left corner in looping cursive–Jeon Wonwoo. Your heart leaps into your throat at the sight, your sister's protestations fading into background noise, as you focus on the name written on the sheet of white before you–transfixed by memory and recognition. 

“Are you listening to me?” Lydia’s voice bleeds through the swell in your mind as you slip the letter out of the envelope–delicately, as if it might crumble to dust at the barest whisper of a breath–and unfold it in your hands. You brush aside her attempts at getting your attention and fix your gaze on the words unfolding on the page. 

Dearest ______,

Firstly, I hope you receive this letter in good health, and that your family is well. I am sorry we never kept up correspondence as we had promised when I first left for the city. I have so much to tell you and yet I feel that most of it is entirely pointless, so it might be better left unsaid for now; at least until we are able to speak in person. 

I’m not sure when this letter will arrive, but my intention is for it to precede my own arrival by at least a day or so. I had been planning on visiting for quite some time, but it was a thought always pushed to the back of my mind as life and present matters took over, but receiving your letter resurfaced the desire to return. 

I must say your letter was a slight shock, but certainly not an unwelcome one. Truthfully, there hasn’t been a day that has passed that I have not thought of you or of the time we spent together as children and adolescents. I hadn’t dared to hope that you remembered, or even returned the feelings that I had held close to my heart since those days, but reading your words brought that hope back to life. 

I look forward to seeing you again at last, 

Yours Truly, 

Wonwoo

You sit in silence for a moment, staring blank faced down at the letter as your sister leans over your shoulder trying desperately to read the lines of ink scrawled delicately over the page. “Well,” she whines, giving up on the task, “what does it say?” 

Without a glance spared in her direction, you stand up and race out of the parlour–brushing past your confused mother as you dart up the staircase towards your bedroom. 

“Oh, did you get the letter?” your mother calls after you as you run, leaning over the bannister, but you staunchly ignore her as you careen into your room to tear into the trunk at the foot of your bed. No mind paid for the mess you’re creating as you pull out ribbons, books, and trinkets from the large, ornately carved wooden box. Buried at the bottom of the trunk lies a small box of letters, hidden from the prying eyes of your family–or at least you had thought it was hidden from the prying eyes of your family. Looking now, as you sit splayed out on the floor of your bedroom amongst a haphazard pile of items, it’s clear that it has been rifled through since the last time you had bothered to check it. 

From amongst the pile of letters hidden away amongst your treasures and belongings, only one is missing. One tear-stained, hastily written piece of parchment snatched from the stack of otherwise inconsequential papers by the fingers of someone who was incapable of minding their own business or of leaving well enough alone. 

“Don’t be mad,” your sister’s voice pleads from behind you as she stands in the doorway playing with her fingers, watching your back as you begin to gather up your things with a sigh–tossing them back into the trunk and closing the lid with a snap before turning to face her. 

A slow seeping mixture of anger and embarrassment has overcome your thoughts and swells near to bursting as you glare at her through a fog of red. She opens her mouth to speak, fear dancing in her eyes as she scrambles for some words that might placate you. Tries to form some meagre explanation for her actions. You take advantage of her immobility and move towards her with a fury you didn’t know you possessed. A moment before you can catch her sleeves she turns and races down the hallway, leaping down the staircase, and hiding behind your bewildered mama–a desperate shield from your wrath. 

A sliver of clarity leeches through the haze surrounding you, sounding out like a bell through your angered mind, and instead of reaching for her with clawing hands like you’re itching to, you push past them and stalk straight through the front door and out into the gardens. A light drizzle of rain has begun to fall in the time between your walk through the fields and now, but you pay it no mind–only too grateful for the company of the raindrops alongside the tears that begin to fall from your eyes. 

You can hear the door open and close behind you, footsteps crunching along the dirt and gravel of the path you are currently trodding on towards no destination, but you don’t give them the satisfaction of turning. Instead you pick up your pace, hastening your already brisk gait until you’re nearly running towards the creek at the edge of the estate–searching for some escape, some reprieve, from the suffocating presence of your family to gather the frayed edges of your tormented mind. 

Missing the hint as usual, they persist. Voices call out from behind you, entreating you to turn and face them but the pleas and demands only serve to heighten the flush of rage through your veins.

By the time you reach the edge of the water your body is shaking. Whether from the cold or the overwhelming emotions you’re not sure. You stand, staring out over the water as it rushes downstream, blinking away the tears stinging at your eyes. “Oh, will you stop being so dramatic,” your mother finally catches up with you–her curls and skirts soaked in water and mud, a fact of which you know you will never hear the end of. “Apologise to your sister.” 

You baulk at her, mouth gaping with shock and horror, “me? Apologise to her?” 

“Yes, you scared her,” she nods, arms crossed and eyes set in a determined stare, “besides, you shouldn’t be racing down the stairs like a child at your age. Not when you are so close to being engaged, just think; what would your fiance say about this behaviour?” 

“I don’t have a fiance,” you shoot back, mirroring her stance, “and if I did, and if he were a man of any brains at all, he would say I have every right to wring her neck for what she’s done.” 

“Mama,” Lydia whines, still hiding behind the impenetrable figure standing before you in rain-soaked linens. “I didn’t do anything wrong, I just sent out a letter.” 

“A letter that was never yours to send,” you shout, earning yourself a withering glare from your mother. Thunder rumbles in the far distance and you sigh, feeling the rain as it falls against your tired limbs and a tired mind. The idyl of the morning feels so far away now. Jeonghan’s easy smile, the light filtering through the grove, the feeling of the rough bark under your fingertips. A morning of reminiscence scrubbed away so easily by the foolishness of one insolent sister. All the hope that had lifted in your chest now falling away from you with each raindrop and disappearing into the ground below. 

You open your eyes to watch your mother standing in defence of the sister that might have ruined both your past and future. All life, all fight drains from your body, and you’re left now with the only question that matters hanging in the damp, cool air between you. “Why?”

She doesn’t answer. She stares back at you, an expression of haughty defiance painting her face, and after a minute of silence–a cold standoff at the edge of the river–you brush past them once more and stride back towards the house. Resigning yourself to never knowing; to life never being that same as it was mere hours ago when you were standing peacefully in the midday sun, unaware of the storm brewing for you in the shadows of the day. 

Your mother hurries to catch up with you, “you’ll forgive her. She is your sister, after all, you’ve only got each other.” 

You feel the urge to shout again, to admonish her for always taking the side of your younger sibling even when it was clear she was in the wrong, but the feeling dies in your throat before you can even think to act on it. You’re too tired. Instead you halt in your step and turn to face her, another question pressing at the forefront of your mind, “you read the letter?” 

“I suppose we’ll be having two guests for dinner tomorrow night,” she muses, managing at least to look somewhat apologetic for your current state of affairs despite the obvious delight swimming behind her eyes. Two potential love matches for her daughter, and all the drama that a bored mama could possibly dream up, had finally planted itself in her lap and she was enjoying every second of it. 

“Don’t you have any shame at all?” you ask, knowing how fruitless the question was but unable to refrain from voicing it. Enough anger was still lingering at the edges of your mind to give voice to the words. 

“Oh, don’t pretend like you’re not excited to see the Jeon boy,” she says, trailing after you as you resume your brisk pace towards the house. “I always thought you two might get engaged when you were older, but then he left and well, Mr. Yoon seems an excellent second choice.” 

You pointedly ignore her as she continues to monologue her fantasies for life, following behind you as you head up to your room in search of dry clothing and some reprieve from her aimless talking. “Mama,” you spin towards her, stopping her at the threshold of your bedroom, “I can tell you are gleaning some great joy from this situation, but please for once in your life have some pity and leave me alone.” 

She opens her mouth to speak again but you close the door before she gets the chance, blocking out her protestations as you sink down onto the oak floor in a puddle of linen skirts and despair. 

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.

.

Dinner is suffocating. Your father relishes in the rare silence at the table while you coldly pass bowls of potatoes and vegetables to your sister, avoiding eye contact even as she nudges you under the table with her foot. You know your behaviour is childish–unbecoming of someone your age, as your mother would say, despite her own childish actions–but you can’t bring yourself to come to a place of peace and forgiveness quite yet. The letter still looms in your mind like a parchment monolith, a cloud hanging over all of your thoughts even as you try to distract yourself after dinner with a book by the fireplace. Even as your mother tries to entice you into friendly gossip about how you think Wonwoo might have changed over the years, how he might measure up to Jeonghan as a potential match. 

The evening drags on into night, darkness swallowing the estate, and your sister sits staring at you over her untouched needlework from the other side of the parlour. You raise your eyes to meet hers for a moment before turning back to your novel, resuming the standoff and sinking back into the staunch silence you’re treating her with. 

In truth it has been this way since childhood. The moment she was ushered into this world, the weight of responsibility settled onto your shoulders. The expectation of being the eldest sibling; of acting mature and setting an example for her to follow as she chased you through the fields, inserting herself in every possible situation with the carelessness of one who knows that they can get away with anything, should they so choose. 

Your only reprieve from the insistent pressure of responsibility was when cousins and family would visit, capturing her wandering attention for long enough that you were able to slip out unnoticed and find solace outside, in a book, or with Wonwoo. Peace from her endless questioning and imitations–from following you around like a lost, unceasingly precocious child. 

The heat of her unwavering gaze burns into the top of your head as you try to follow the narrative of your story in the dim light of the fire. Eventually you give up, slipping the book back into its place on the shelf, and dismissing yourself with a good night to your father–absorbed in his own book and entirely uninterested in the dramatics brewing within his home. Your sister scrambles up after you, following in your footsteps and rushing to say her own goodnights before chasing behind you up the stairs. 

“Stop following me,” you spin around in the doorway to your room, arms crossed in defence–levelling her with a glare that you can only hope she takes seriously for once in her life. 

“You have to forgive me eventually,” Lydia says, matching your posture and meeting your gaze with her own determined stare. “You can’t be upset about it forever.” It’s clear the silent treatment you’ve been giving her has wormed its way under her skin–plucking at the exact nerves that she tries so hard to ignore. Her disdain for being ignored–for being disliked, even momentarily–working against her now in the safety of her own home. 

“Yes, I can,” you state flatly, half-turning away from her towards and moving to close the door before she stops you with a hand on your arm. 

“That’s not fair,” she whines, “what are you so upset about anyway? That you have two men in love with you?” The truth seeps through her words and you find the answer to your question from earlier finally in the subtext of her complaints. “You’re jealous?” 

“I’m not jealous,” she bites back, but the pout that accompanies the statement indicates the exact opposite. “I just think it’s unfair that you’re marrying someone without telling them that you’re in love with someone else.” 

“I’m not marrying anyone,” you grit your teeth to keep from shouting and rousing your parent’s attention. The last thing you needed at this moment was the less than helpful advice of your mother. “I’m not even engaged. No one has asked me to marry them–no one.” You turn away from her, eager to shut her out for the night and sink into the comfort of sleep, “and I’m not in love with Wonwoo.” 

She snorts, unconvinced, “that letter said otherwise.” 

“That letter was written when I was fifteen and he was leaving,” you reply with a glare, “things have changed.” 

“If you’re not still in love with him,” a small smile quirks up the corner of her lip, bringing another wave of rage crashing through you at the sight of it. Her smug expression lit low by the lanterns burning on the walls, “then why are you so mad?” 

With a huff you close the door, blocking out any further comments she might deem necessary to add–anything further to provoke you to anger. You pause a moment, staring at the dark wood of the door, and breathe. The urge to scream floods your thoughts and you move to lie flat on your bed before it bursts free completely. 

Sleep comes in fits and starts. Your dreams chase you through the labyrinth of night cloaked in signs and symbols–always beginning and ending in that grove of trees on your family's estate. Each time you stand at the entrance to the greenery, hopeful anticipation bubbling up in your chest, and take a step forward. Everything is silent–still. No chirping of birds, no rush of the wind, no sound at all save your own footsteps over the trodden soil as you walk towards the gnarled oak at the centre of the grove–your hand outstretched towards the bark. 

The carved heart greets your fingers, initials swimming before your eyes. Wonwoo, Jeonghan, Lydia's, your own. They all traverse and coalesce on the expanse of broken brown wood, mingling with each other and transforming endlessly in front of your eyes. Before they have a chance to settle, a branch snaps behind you and you turn in anticipation to see who it is; a glimpse of muted fabric, a vaguely formed face, flashes in front of your vision before you are transported back to the field outside the trees–feet itching to carry you forward once again. 

You repeat this process, over and over, until the light breaking through the window above your bed stirs you to consciousness. You sigh and squirm deeper into the blankets, desperate to sink back into the embrace of dreams and avoid the inevitable disaster of the day waiting for you outside your room. 

A sharp knock on the door cuts off any hope that you had of delay. “Mama says to come down for breakfast," Lydia warns and you listen as her footsteps disappear down the staircase before slipping out of bed and preparing for the day. 

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The scent of eggs and ham greets you as you stumble down the stairs some time later; dressed in a simple frock belying the anxiety bubbling in the pit of your stomach in anticipation of the day. Your mother greets you with a cheerful “good morning”, the tone ignorant of the tension that underlay your last interactions with her. You offer her a tired smile in response–content with staying in silence for as long as possible this morning and avoiding any further bursts of anger she might provoke. It takes you a moment to notice the extra figure sitting at the table, one at the same time so familiar and unfamiliar. Wonwoo’s eyes, obscured as they are behind the glass of his spectacles, betray a similar mixture of delight and wariness at your presence. He offers you a hesitant smile over his plate of food and you feel your heart leap into your throat, mouth falling open in a silent gasp. 

“Wonwoo,” you exclaim, earning an admonishing tsk from your mother at the noise. He stands, bowing slightly in greeting–smile broadening marginally as he does so. 

“Hello,” he replies. You can hear a million different restrained thoughts and questions in the greeting. So many unspoken words it makes your stomach knot. You remain, mouth agape, standing feet away while the force of it hits you while your sister, on the other hand, laughs aloud at the look of pure alarm on your face. 

“Oh, sit down before you fall down,” she says, rolling her eyes and reaching for another roll from the centre of the table. “It’s only Wonwoo, you knew he was coming.” 

You resist the temptation to openly glare at her and instead gather yourself into the seat across from Wonwoo–returning his smile, finally, with your own. “You’re here much sooner than expected,” you say, offering it as the only excuse for your astonishment at his presence during your family breakfast. 

“I arrived rather early this morning,” he explains. The tension held in his shoulders ebbs away slowly, hesitation diminishing now that you’ve settled across from him. “Thankfully your father was awake and willing to sit down over a cup of tea.” You nod in acknowledgement. He and your father had always gotten along rather well, being of similar disposition. You would often find them sitting in silence together while your mama chased you around with her many complaints. “You look well,” he adds after a moment, a soft smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. 

He’s older now than the last time you saw him–his jaw defined by the sharpness that comes with age, the loss of the soft roundness of youth–but he still looks exactly as you remember him. His brown eyes still hold that same kindness and quiet humour that you were so fond of. His smile, though grown hesitant with years of distance, is still as bright as it always was; a warm smile, both welcoming and genuine. A smile that makes you wish you had sent that letter out years ago. Maybe it would have kept him here, with you, at this table. Maybe you could have watched these transformations occur instead of seeing them all now. Maybe you would have had time to accustom yourself to the new angle of his jaw, to the mature slant of his cheekbone. Maybe…

“I am well, thank you,” you reply, cutting off your wandering thoughts and into your breakfast. Turning away from the warmth of his gaze for a moment’s reprieve. “And you? Have you been–” Hesitation stops you in your tracks as you form the question. Keen awareness of the curious eyes at the table fixed firmly on you, intruding on this reunion with their unceasing attention. The knowledge that both your mother and sister are highly aware of the undercurrent of feelings–whether present or past–running between you stalls your speech. “Are you well?” you finish lamely, clearing your throat and gathering yourself into a state of stoicism.

“Very well, thank you,” he replies with a nod, similarly reserved. Knowing your family as he does, you’re sure he senses the shift in the atmosphere. Sure he’s adjusting himself accordingly. 

“Well,” your mother leans forward, towards Wonwoo, a conspiratorial glint in her eye as she begins speaking, “we are so glad to have you back with us after such a long time away. I can’t imagine why you didn’t visit sooner, but no matter. How long will you be staying?” 

“Only a week,” he replies, “I return to town next Sunday.” 

“And what brings you here so suddenly?” The brazenness of her question in light of everything she knows would shock you if you weren’t so used to her meddling. You bite your tongue, woefully resigned to allowing her to play out her machinations while you suffer under the brunt of them. A mere tool in her game of matchmaking and gossip-mongering. Lydia stifles a laugh next to you with a cough, drawing Wonwoo’s attention. 

“Ah,” he starts, watching you closely for any hint of caution but you remain as neutral as possible. “I had been meaning to return for years now, I’ve been too long overdue for a visit. It has been years, even, since I’ve seen my own family’s estate.” 

“I see,” your mother sighs, correcting her posture and sitting upright, disappointed by the lack of spectacle. Her desire for a dramatic breakfast proposal being thwarted, she changes topic and shifts to Wonwoo’s current business practices. How is he getting along as a barrister in town during these troubled times? He answers her inquiries, offering up tidbits of gossip from town that might interest her, and you feel a rush of gratitude towards him for so easily flowing with her changing moods and temperament. A feat not easily undertaken. 

Conversation continues late into the morning, with even your father chiming in here and there; forgoing his usual habit of staying entirely silent until reproached by your mother and instead offering up comments entirely unprovoked to the surprise and delight of the same woman who is usually provoking him. You pick at the food on your plate, watching Wonwoo from across the table even as your sister silently teases you for it from her own seat. Finally, the plates are all cleared away and you stand, ready to stretch your stiff muscles outside of the house.

“Why don’t you three kids take a walk,” your mother prompts–taking notice of your fidgeting. “I have to make preparations for dinner tonight.” 

“Oh, there’s no need to go to such trouble on my account,” Wonwoo holds his hands up as if to ward off the worst of your mother’s efforts. 

“It’s not just for you,” Lydia sighs, a sly grin tugging at the corners of her mouth, “it’s for Mr. Yoon.” 

“Who–” Wonwoo starts, glancing at you, a ripple of confusion passing over his face before your mother cuts him off. 

“Don’t be rude, Lydia,” she admonishes her, “it’s for both of you, Mr. Jeon. Mr. Yoon has become a very welcome part of our family gatherings since he arrived not two months ago.” She moves behind you, hustling the three of you out of the dining room and towards the front door in a manner befitting a sheepdog rather than a mother. “The girls will tell you all about him, I’m sure.” 

The door is closed on you before you have the chance to protest and you turn towards Wonwoo with a heavy sigh, “I guess we are taking a walk, then.” 

“Your mother certainly has not changed over all these years,” he laughs, more relaxed now that you’re away from the presence of your parents. He offers his arm for you to take as you descend down the stone path leading through the gardens and out into the fields.  The rain of the previous day is all but gone, leaving nothing but the odd puddle dotting the path as you walk along at an easy pace--grateful for the warm, golden sun as it streams down on you. 

You slip your arm through Wonwoo’s and marvel at the naturalness of the gesture. Though it’s been years since your last exchange of letters, and even longer since you last saw each other in person, the ease with which you slip back into old comforts in his presence is nothing short of remarkable. You spend the first half of the walk catching up–exchanging stories of the goings-on around the village and in town since you last spoke. Lydia walks a ways ahead of you, constantly looking back as if desperate to invite herself into the conversation before inevitably thinking better of it and turning around to resume her striding. 

The silence emanating from her is a worrisome gnat that wheedles its way into the back of your mind, but you brush it aside and focus on the feeling of your old friend back at your side. The feeling of his arm against yours, his voice no longer a mere echo in your mind, but a real sound to be heard and listened to. It feels as if he had never left; that despite the growth in each of you as a person, both physically and mentally, there had merely been a pause put on your relationship. A brief interlude that served only to bring you to this exact moment in time where you could be together again. 

The comfort is at once welcome and disconcerting. The thought of Wonwoo’s letter, the implication of his feelings, presses at the forefront of your mind alongside the image of Jeonghan with his hand outstretched towards you in the sun of the grove. As much as you want to ignore these worries, they sit there staring at you, tugging at your attention as you try and focus on what should be a joyous reunion. And as Wonwoo talks, regaling you with tales from his time at college and in his current employment, you can see those same worries brewing behind his eyes. The same hesitation keeping him from broaching either topic. You’re each waiting, hearts held on the blade of a sword. Enjoying each other's company while expecting someone to slice into it and spill the blood at any moment. 

“So,” your sister struts over to you as you sit in the grass by the river, knees tucked tight to your chest. She sits down in front of you, her skirts pooling around her in a puddle of blue and white. You brace yourself for whatever she had been planning during her extended silence on your walk. The tension built up from yesterday had still not eased and if you knew your sister as well as you thought you did, you knew she would not allow herself to be the first one to heal the rift. 

You fix her with an even stare. Careful neutrality painted on your expression in an attempt to dissuade the worst of her plotting. “Yes, Lydia?” 

“Did she tell you about Jeonghan yet?” she asks with a mirthful grin, and you feel the question jolt through your body. Wonwoo glances up at her, dropping the blade of grass he had been idly running between his fingers, and lifting a hand to adjust his glasses. 

“Ah, no,” he admits. His eyes flicker to you briefly before returning to Lydia–so quickly you might not have noticed had your own eyes not been watching him from the corner of your vision. “I don’t believe so.”

“And you’ve never met him before?” Her grin widens slightly, glee shining bright in the depths of her coal dark eyes. She was truly her mother’s daughter. 

“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure, no,” he says, tolerating the leading questions with more patience than you would have ever been able to muster. But then, he always was more patient than you. 

“So you don’t know?” she asks, smile widening even further. 

“Lydia,” you warn, using every ounce of strength and resilience in your body to resist leaping forward and tackling her to the ground before she can spoil anything further. 

The warning in your voice doesn’t go unnoticed by Wonwoo. You can feel him stiffen next to you; the fear of whatever is being left unsaid creeping under his skin and nestling there like a slumbering bear at the cusp of spring.

“Know what?” he asks, curiosity overwhelming the fear. He plucks up the thread your sister has laid bare and you know there’s no going back once she’s said what she wants to say. You want to grab him by the hand and race away–towards the trees, to a place used as solace from her nearly everyday in your youth. To hide from her and from the realities of the situation you find yourself currently stranded in. To stay in this moment in between forever. 

Lydia smiles again, pleased to command everyone’s attention so completely. You wait, the knot of anxiety in your stomach tightening, and watch Wonwoo out of the corner of your eye. Waiting to see the regret over his return show itself plain on his face. 

“They’re engaged,” she says finally, pulling the pin and leaning back on her arms to watch Wonwoo’s face fall. His mouth pulls to a thin line and you feel a cavern open up in the hollow of your chest, ready to swallow you whole. 

“Lydia,” you all but shout her name, startling a bird resting on a nearby bush and sending it flying into the air with an alarmed chirp. “We are not engaged.” 

“You might as well be,” she shouts back, balling her fists up in her skirts and fixing you with a glare, “I know that’s why he’s coming for dinner tonight.” 

“You don’t know anything,” the cold anger seething in your voice surprises you, but the buttons have been pressed and you can do nothing now except ride the wave. “I don’t know what games you’re playing, Lydia–whether you’re bored or just jealous or what–and frankly, I don’t care. It’s not funny. Leave me alone.” 

Whatever outcome she had hoped to garner from engineering this confrontation, this was not it. You watch as she picks herself up off the ground in a huff and stalks back towards the house–no doubt seeking the solace of your mother’s ever-forgiving arms. The rage subsides as she disappears from view, leaving in its wake a hollow in the pit of your stomach as you’re left staring out over the meandering creek as it carves its path through the fields. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, glancing sideways at Wonwoo. He sits still, in a state of mild shock at the outburst, and makes no indication of either moving or speaking. Birds fly overhead, singing their soprano songs as they make their way towards some unknown destination–wings disturbing the otherwise still air surrounding you. Silence stretches onwards, and you sit with your head resting on your arms, wishing you could travel back in time to prevent this from ever happening. 

But what time would you travel back to? To prevent Lydia from ever finding the letter in the first place, would you not have written it? Would you have instead bottled up those feelings that, at the time, were so overwhelming they demanded a two-page long letter to express? 

Would you go back and refuse to meet Jeonghan at the ball? Spend your time against the wall and accepting dances from the unwed sons of families you rarely associated with? 

Or would you travel back the span of a day and make peace with your sister. Approach her not from a well of anger but from a space of understanding and diplomacy–if only to smooth her ruffled feathers and prevent the fight that had been brewing in the pot of tension between you. 

The answer never comes. All of the possibilities–of what could have been or what might have been–dangle before you, but you know there is no going back; you are left now simply to pick up the pieces in the aftermath of what is. 

Wonwoo breaks the tense silence himself after a few minutes. “Is it true?” he asks, the potent mixture of hope and fear in his voice sends a pang of guilt through your heart–piercing the already bruised organ further at the sound. 

“We’re not engaged,” you say, unsure of how else to phrase the inbetween state of being that exists between you and Jeonghan. That period of time when both of you know what the next step is but still have not moved a muscle to take it. 

“Why did you send the letter?” He asks, twisting the knife of guilt and shame further and deeper into you with the tone of despair leaking out over every word. You turn to look at him, meeting his gaze head on to see the heartbreak glistening in his warm, brown eyes. 

The threat of tears prick behind your own as you look at him, desperately searching your brain for an answer that will make all of this go away–but none surface. Instead you are left with nothing but a confused tangle of emotions churning inside of you, clouding your thoughts with the force of them. You brace yourself for his possible reaction to the truth, averting your eyes back towards the blue river, “I didn’t send it.” The confession rolls out of your mouth like a prayer for peace and you can hear Wonwoo’s sharp intake of air as he takes a steadying breath beside you. 

“Do you love him?” The question hangs in the air between you, bringing you at once closer together with the weight of it and thrusting you further apart in the implication. 

“I don’t know,” you had never been able to lie around Wonwoo. Not since you were children, forcing him to steal bread and cheese from the kitchens with you for your own tea parties in the garden. Not since you were youths of twelve telling each other your deepest secrets as you laid next to each other in the field watching the clouds pass overhead. The truth, however painful it may be, was always the only route you were ever able to take when held under the weight of his gaze–transfixed by the warmth in his honeydark eyes. 

“Could you love him?” 

“Yes,” you sigh, nodding. “I could.” 

His next question comes out as a whisper, barely heard of the sound of the water below and the birds overhead--almost as if he was too afraid to ask it, “do you love me?” 

What could you say? What answer was there to give? ‘Of course, Wonwoo, you’re my best friend.’ While it remains true, you know that it isn’t what he’s asking you; you can read the deeper meaning hidden in the question, you know the significance of the words he is choosing. You turn towards him, twisting the knife in your heart one final time, severing completely the hope he had sent by letter. “I don’t know.” 

Another moment of silence passes. You stare unblinking over the horizon, waiting for the rain clouds to form in the blue expanse overhead–to match your mood with their dreary presence–but the sky remains unashamedly clear. 

Wonwoo lets out a long sigh beside you. You keep your gaze forward as you feel him stand up until he reaches a hand out to help you up. You glance from his hand to his face in surprise at the gesture after your confession, but he just smiles down at you sadly. “Come on,” he prompts and you slip your hand into his hand. 

“Where are we going?” you ask, unclear as to his intentions now that everything has been laid bare under the afternoon sun. 

“I’m walking you home,” he says simply, before pulling you to your feet and heading back down the path away from the running water and golden fields of wheat. 

.

.

.

The afternoon drags on, spent in the midst of an uncomfortable silence in the parlour with your sister and mother. Wonwoo excused himself to his family home shortly after returning back under the guise of getting ready for dinner. A part of you had been expecting him to feign illness and retire for the entirety of the evening, but no doubt the pressure of social graces–as well as his own unwavering politeness–entreated him to keep the engagement. 

The book open between your hands may as well be blank for all the attention you’re paying it; your mind swims with thoughts of your fight with your sister, and of the subsequent conversation with Wonwoo–replaying it over and over relentlessly. His face, crestfallen and sad, lingers in the forefront of your mind–a portrait reminder of the sharp ache in the centre of your chest. Lydia sits across from you, puncturing the fabric of her needlework aimlessly as she switches between pouting and glaring in your direction while your mother pointedly ignores you both in favour of hemming the dress her own sister recently passed down to her. 

Your father, attuned as usual to the shifting moods of the house, avoids the parlour entirely. 

The silent contemplation brings you no sense of reprieve by the time Jeonghan arrives for the evening. Hours spent pondering your options–alternating back and forth between him and Wonwoo and your confused feelings for both men–have brought no clear conclusion forward. In the wake of the afternoon, you prepare yourself for what was sure to be a bizarre dinner party, begging your mother not to sit you next to Lydia at the table for everyone’s sake. 

Thankfully she obliges, seating you instead between Wonwoo and Jeonghan for her own amusement–the latter of which being entirely unaware of the state of affairs he is about to enter into with this dinner. The table is set, the people are seated, and your mother begins with an overwhelmingly passionate monologue of gratitude towards the two young gentlemen joining your family that evening. 

“Mr. Jeon,” she smiles, passing a bowl of potatoes towards him, “how happy we are to see you at long last back home, as I already said this morning.” You roll your eyes at the emphatic speech, catching the gaze of your sister in a similar state of reproach and almost laughing with her before you correct yourself and turn back towards your plate of food. “I do so hope you will be back to visit much more in the future.”

“Of course,” Wonwoo nods his gratitude towards her, a placating smile stretching over his lips as he passes the bowl towards his aunt who had invited herself over as soon as she heard about the occasion. 

“I’ve already admonished him, Gloria,” she laughs, scooping a healthy serving of the starchy vegetable onto her own plate before handing it off down the line. “It has been far too long since I have seen my nephew and what does he do when he arrives? He comes to your estate for breakfast without even first saying hello to anyone in his own family.” She shakes her head and shares another laugh with your mother. They are, as always, two birds of a feather when in the company of each other–delighting in gossip and unwarranted comments as often as they can catch a breath to share them. 

“Now, Mr. Yoon,” your mother shifts her attention towards the man at your right side, smiling at him as if he were a newborn baby, “I am saddened to hear that you have to leave us so soon, but we have very much enjoyed your company these past few months and do so hope you will be back again soon.” 

“Of course,” he returns her smile with his own. You can feel the heat of his thigh next to your own under the table, the closeness of him on your one side and Wonwoo on the other nearly suffocating you in your seat. “There is a lot to come back for.” 

The comment doesn’t go unnoticed by either your sister, who has to feign a brief coughing fit to cover her laughter, or Wonwoo whose hand tenses around the fork in his grasp even as his expression remains impassive. The conversation is dissolved and dispersed amongst the table throughout the meal; your father catches Jeonghan’s attention and, unusually talkative, entreats him with a renewed discussion of the progress on the new mill’s construction. Both family matriarchs trade local gossip, as well as any anecdotes they can remember from the most recent ball, to keep each other entertained while you and Wonwoo sit in abject silence next to each other–eyes focused on the food on your plates in front of you. 

Everyone retires to the parlour after dinner, mingling in small groups with you and your sister sitting in silence at the edge of room–watching as your mother’s laugh grows louder with the heat of wine and your father’s passionate discussions about the price of rye take on a life of their own, while Jeonghan just nods patiently and listens. Gravity and familiarity pull the two of you closer together, seeking some solace in each other as the only two outsiders in your own home. 

“You were right,” she heaves a sigh, turning to you with a brief glance. 

“What was I right about?” You keep your eyes trained towards the room, watching as Wonwoo and Jeonghan strike up a conversation with each other and desperately wishing you were close enough to be able to hear what they were discussing. Lydia calls your attention back to her with a dramatic sigh. 

“I was jealous,” she admits and you look at her in surprise at the frank confession. “It was stupid, and I’m sorry. In my defence I didn’t know it was going to be so–” she pauses, waving a hand in a dramatic gesture towards the rest of the room, “dramatic.” 

You choke back a bark of astonished laughter, completely at odds with how you had been feeling for the first portion of the evening; all fight had been entirely drained out of you and despite the desire to continue dragging her over the coals for her sin, you give in to the shared bond that exists between you as sisters. “Me either,” you say simply.

“Do you forgive me?” she asks, a spark of hope lighting up her voice at your acceptance of her excuse and you laugh. 

“No,” you reply, grinning at her, “but I will.” 

“I suppose I can accept that,” she nods once, smiling back at you before drifting towards your mother and inserting herself into a conversation around pregnancy rumours in the village–a topic that is sure to keep all three of them enraptured for the remainder of the evening, as nothing is more exciting than the threat of children to women who have none to worry over anymore.

Left alone, you wander towards Wonwoo and Jeonghan; buoyed by the reconciliation with your sister and resigned to swallowing the rest of your fate as it stands before you. “Are we still discussing mills and rye?” you ask, nodding towards your father who has taken it upon himself to sink into silence with a book in front of the fire, having exhausted all avenues of conversation that he is even remotely invested in. 

Jeonghan laughs, shaking his head with a mock grimace, “no, actually. As it turns out, once you’ve already talked about the price of grain for well over an hour, there isn’t much left to be said.” 

Wonwoo nods, laughing–all hint of earlier heartbreak has washed clean from his expression for the moment and you can see that he and Jeonghan are getting along despite themselves. The confusion returns anew, revitalised in your mind, and you can’t be sure whether this development is good or bad even as you stand by to watch it unfold. 

“No,” Wonwoo says, “I was just asking him about his time in London.” 

“A truly horrible place,” Jeonghan shudders at the thought of the city, drawing another laugh forward from Wonwoo and plucking another thread of nerves inside your throat. “No, I am quite happy to be away from there for the time being. The peace and quiet of the countryside suits me, I think.” 

“It is certainly quiet,” Wonwoo nods just as a loud bout of laughter sounds out from the group of women on the settee near the fireplace, a wry smile dancing on his lips. 

“And you are from here originally?” Jeonghan asks, glancing over at Wonwoo’s aunt as she stands to deliver her well practised imitation of one of the other mamas from the village. 

“Yes, we grew up together,” he nods, gesturing towards you with the reply. Jeonghan glances between you, the new knowledge clicking into place in the wheels of his mind. 

“You must have a lot of stories from that time,” he says, following the thought. You watch it spin behind the firelit brown of his eyes. 

“Many, yes. We spent a lot of our time together,” Wonwoo affirms, and the truth of the statement sinks into you as he says it. Your past is filled with memories of him–painted with images of him splayed out in the fields, or leaping into the water, or simply falling asleep at the breakfast table after a sleepless night spent reading by candlelight. “If you want,” Wonwoo muses, lifting a hand to his chin with a sly grin, “I can tell you about the time she lost her shoe in the–”

“Stop,” you reach a hand out in panic, yanked unceremoniously out of your memories by the suggestion, and grab onto Wonwoo’s arm to cut off the story before it can begin. “No one wants to hear that story,” you let out a nervous laugh.

“I don’t know, I wouldn’t mind hearing it,” Jeonghan says, glancing down where your hand sits lingering on Wonwoo’s arm; you pull it back to your side and resign yourself to the embarrassment that is sure to follow. He turns his attention back towards Wonwoo as he begins the story–more than happy to offer up your pain as an anecdote for the evening. 

“We were having a foot race through the fields after a particularly intense summer storm,” he begins with and you groan inwardly, already dreading the narrative that you know will follow, “of course her skirts were at least an inch deep in the mud and were weighing her down rather heavily,” the story continues and Jeonghan stands as a ready audience as Wonwoo weaves the image together for him. You can picture that day so clearly in your mind, the feeling of the mud sucking you down into the field, Wonwoo nearly tearing your sleeve off while trying to pull you out, and then diving in to rescue the shoe that you were sure your mother would kill you for if she knew you had lost it. 

The rain beating down on you as Wonwoo carried you on his back towards the house–tears streaming down your face and the both of you covered head to toe in mud which earned you an, admittedly deserved, verbal lashing from your parents as soon as you tracked it inside. 

“I must say,” Jeonghan looks towards you when the story comes to its conclusion, laughing softly at the thought, “I can’t quite picture it.”

“Why not?” you ask, curious as to the reason behind his statement. 

“I suppose,” he pauses for a moment in thought, “you seem much more put together now. I can’t picture you as a wild child.” 

Wonwoo snorts, as if some inside joke has been shared, and shoots you a conspiratorial glance, “she’s definitely much more put together now.”

“Well, I’m glad you two have had fun bonding over my embarrassment,” you sigh. The clock on the wall chimes the hour and you see from the corner of your eye your father yawning wide over his book. Even the laughter and chatter from the other women in the room has died down–everyone now sporting a tired, weary expression in the lateness of the evening. 

Wonwoo’s aunt stands, thanking your parents profusely for the meal and the bed, before retiring upstairs to the guest rooms. Your mother and sister follow her in short order, with your father not too far behind, ushering the three of you towards bed as well. The wooden floors of the stairs creak under the weight as everyone files up towards their respective rooms for the evening; the house has not seen this many guests since the last time your cousins stayed with you, and despite the bizarre circumstances you were grateful for the company as a welcome change of pace from the everyday routine. 

You slip into bed after saying your goodnights and feel the weight of the day sinking into you. Left in solitude finally after hours of entertaining company, your thoughts return to the circular confusion that had been clouding your mind before dinner. They flicker back and forth between faces–Wonwoo, Jeonghan, Wonwoo, Jeonghan–both men swimming up to eclipse all your thoughts once again. You remember Jeonghan as he was the day you met him, cheerful and witty in the presence of a room full of strangers. The best company you had kept in months–more than willing to converse and joke with the ease of someone you could have known for years. 

And you remember Wonwoo, as he was when you were children–bright, kind, and willing to go along with every place you could cook up despite his own shyness and reserve. And you remember him as he was today, beside the creek in the fields; bathed in the light of the afternoon sun, face fallen in the wake of your confession. He had come all this way on the wings of hope towards you after years of separation, and you had to be the one to ground him with reality. Not once, in all your years of knowing him had you seen that expression on his face until today. 

Sleep consumes you after you exhaust your cyclical thoughts; you pray for a dreamless slumber–only too ready to sink into the relief of darkness–and for once, your prayers are granted. 

.

.

.

The house is abuzz with activity in the morning. Everyone wakes for breakfast early, eager to continue last night’s conversations or to strike up new ones, and you feel renewed after a blessedly restful sleep. The weight of indecision still rests heavy on your heart, but it isn’t as cloying and suffocating as it had been the night before–trapped between Wonwoo and Jeonghan at the table all while wrestling with your own thoughts. Instead you find yourself smiling more easily, even laughing openly at your sister’s jokes over breakfast. Relief washes through you at the reprieve from your tortured feelings until the meal once again comes to an end and Jeonghan stands, turning towards you with a question. “If I may,” he begins, capturing the attention of everyone still seated despite the attempt at keeping his voice to a low volume. “Could I request the privilege of an audience with you,” uncharacteristic nervousness shimmers in his voice and you feel it similarly ripple through your body, “alone?” 

In a rush your mother stands, abandoning her half-cut slice of ham and ushering everyone out of the dining room with glee and answers for you. “Of course, of course,” you sit paralyzed, your own nerves tying a knot inside your throat as you watch them leave the room. Wonwoo looks back at you, meeting your eyes with his own worried gaze before the door is closed and you are left in silence as Jeonghan gathers his thoughts to speak. 

“It should come as no surprise,” he begins, and you stand to face him–eyes slightly averted from his own to avoid the intensity of the moment, “that I–” he pauses, hesitating. The nerves that were in his voice before have built to a fine point and you watch his hands as they clench and unclench into fists at his side. 

“Jeonghan,” you start, hoping to offer some words to ease the palpable tension in the air but coming up entirely speechless. 

“I return to town soon, and I was hoping you would also–” he sighs, running a hand through his hair in frustration before giving up on whatever speech he had half-planned. “I love you,” he says, plainly, brown eyes seeking yours for any confirmation of the feelings he wishes to be returned, “quite a lot, actually, and I had to ask before I left if you feel the same, if–” he inhales, breath shaking with the force of his confession–with the fear of rejection or acceptance or both. “If you would do me the honour of marrying me?” 

The question hangs between you–caught in limbo as you ponder it. You had expected it, as much as you had tried to ignore that expectancy, it was there. Standing here, in the centre of your family’s dining room facing him now–the buzzing excitement, the sweeping sense of anticipation, and warmth that you felt before–it’s all miles away. The hope you had previously held for this exact moment is racing away through the fields, running free and far from you. The feelings that bore the hope exist still, they sit nestled in your heart, but they aren’t attached to Jeonghan; here in the light of day you finally come to the realisation that you have known all along where your heart belongs. 

It belongs in the fields of your childhood, running through the mud with your hand clasped tight in Wonwoo’s firm grip. It belongs at the feet of the boy who promised you at thirteen years old that he would never let you go. It belongs to someone on the other side of the door from you–whose heart you shattered only a day prior. 

Jeonghan stands silent–waiting for your response–and you wish in this moment you could give him something other than the truth that has formed on your lips, but it has broken free into the air between you before you can catch it. “I’m sorry,” you say, “I wish I could. I really do, but–”

He smiles, the expression not quite meeting his eyes as he nods in understanding, “I know.” The resignation in his voice catches you off guard and he laughs at your surprise, “I knew last night that this was a losing game for me, but still,” he sighs, “I had to ask.” 

“So,” you start, at a loss for what social decorum expects of you in this situation. Sinking into the relief of his acceptance of your rejection. “What will you do now?” 

He pauses a moment in thought, fixing his gaze on the ceiling before turning back to you with a slight grin, “maybe I will invest in the new mill.” 

Laughter cuts through the tension, dissolving the atmosphere of the room back into one of calm camaraderie, “I really am sorry, Jeonghan. For what it’s worth, if you had asked me five days ago I would have said yes.” 

“Missed my chance, then,” he smiles sadly, turning towards the door only to have it swing open under the weight of your mother and sister pressing against it. “Thank you for your hospitality, ma’am,” he bows towards your mother and, before she has a chance to inquire, leaves through the front door and heads off into the morning sun. 

“You rejected him?” your mother asks, surprise and astonishment colouring her voice. She glances between you and the door as it closes behind Jeonghan, mouth agape. 

“Where’s Wonwoo?” you ask, taking note of the absence of him from the small group gathered at the door to the dining room. They all glance around at each other, matching bewildered expressions, until, with a roll of your eyes, you push through them and head out the front door–propriety be damned. 

For a moment you hesitate; you have no idea where he might have gone in the span of time you spent talking to Jeonghan but a voice in the back of your mind directs you across the golden fields towards that old familiar grove of trees. Your mother and sister, accompanied by Wonwoo’s aunt, hover at the front step of the house, watching as you stride through the tall grass, through the stalks of wheat, past the cows and sheep, and towards the greenery beyond. 

You pause at the entrance to the grove, framed by old willow trees and inhale a steadying breath. Your feet sink into the soft earth as you step into the shade of the trees and you see Wonwoo standing, as you half-expected he would be, next to the gnarled oak tree in the centre of the clearing. A small smile plays at the corners of your lips as you approach him in silence, startling him when you come to a stop beside him–eyes trained on the carved heart in the rough, brown bark. 

“Do you remember when we did this?” he asks, tracing a finger over the old memory. You nod, waiting for him to continue the story, “a month before I left for town.”

“I remember.” 

“You told me I wasn’t allowed to leave without first promising to come back when we were older,” he laughs–a light, breathless laugh. “Do you remember that?” 

“I do,” you nod, turning towards him. “I remember you saying you would always come back for me.” 

“Right,” he nods, removing his hand from the wood of the tree and straightening his posture. You stand for a moment, in the silence of the morning broken only by the chirping of nesting birds in the treetops above. The shared memory lingers between you–wrapping you together in a knot of knowing. A knowing of each other, unlike anyone else–shared history, shared memories, shared feelings. 

“Are you going to marry him?” Wonwoo asks, breaking the silence first and glancing at you–fear of your unspoken answer, of what he imagines it might be, dancing in his brown eyes as he stands in the sun-dappled wood. You can’t help but feel strange in this moment, standing with the boy you’ve stood with so many times surrounded by these same trees. He looks the same–older, yes–but the same. The same brown eyes alight with hope and love, the same golden skin glistening in the light of the sun, the same tremor in his voice as he gives voice to a question that he fears the answer to. 

You pause a moment in thought. “Jeonghan would make an excellent husband,” you say, consdiering the possibility out loud. Wonwoo's face falls; a subtle almost imperceptible shift in his expression. Fear of an unknown solidifying into fear of an almost certainty in his mind.

He clears his throat, nodding, "he would." The tremor in his voice remains even as he tries to hide it, speaking softly and trying to steel his gaze. "You would be," he stammers, averting his eyes back towards the bark of the tree, “you would be an excellent match."

"We would, but Wonwoo," you say, catching his attention again with the mention of his name. You capture his gaze once more as you take a step forward, closing the distance between you. Your fingers itch to reach out and take his hand in yours; standing here alone in the middle of a copse of trees you're already laughing in the face of all decency. All it would take is one of you to reach out–skin to skin–as you had when you were children. Without care, without worry. No thought to anything save the moment. Save the feeling that trembles in the space between you. 

"Wonwoo," you begin again, steadying your hands at your side, "how could I marry him when I'm still in love with you?"

The dawn of realisation breaks over his face–clearing away the storm clouds that had been brewing behind his eyes–and his mouth falls open in silent shock. You stand there, bathed in the golden light of the morning sun as it filters through the tops of the trees overhead. Trees that have witnessed your growth together through life; running wild as children, escaping your parents as youths, and sharing your first, fumbling kiss at fourteen years old after racing each other through the rain to the solace of the grove. Trees that now stand witness as Wonwoo finally speaks, breaking the silence that had stretched taut between you for a moment–a silence filled with so many unspoken memories and words. “Can I kiss you?” he asks, voice a mere breath in the air; if you hadn’t been standing so close already you might not have heard him. 

You reach forward, allowing your itching fingers to finally grasp onto his–the shock of his warm hands in your own sending a chill over your body. Slowly, you raise his hand to your lips and press a chaste kiss to the knuckles, murmuring a soft “yes,” into his skin there. 

All the awkwardness of youth is gone; the stiff hands, the hesitation, all of it melts into the past as Wonwoo raises a gentle hand to your cheek, bringing you towards him. A sharp inhale in the wake of anticipation, and then your lips meet. His warmth sinks into you as you press forward into the kiss, deepening it as you feel the flood of feelings held back for years pour forth.

Wonwoo pulls back with a smile that lights up the browns of his irises as he looks at you. “What would your mother think of this?” he teases, entwining his fingers with yours. 

“Don’t ruin this please,” you grimace, and he laughs–bright and clear before pulling you back to him. You feel his smile against your lips and sink into the warmth of it, wrapping your arms around him and allowing the world outside to melt away. No thoughts of your family, no thoughts of your past, no thoughts of the future–just here and now, in the arms of the one you’ve loved and waited for. 

And it’s in this moment, as Wonwoo encircles you in his arms, that you know you’ve made the right choice. 

© 2024, neoneun-au. all rights reserved.

if you enjoyed this story, please consider reblogging and letting me know. its what keeps me writing

[saltyafterhours]

This is just like a general question, but which of the turtles do you think would be the most gentle vs so rough you can't walk for YEARS {exaggeration}

Outside of mating season? I still think it would depend on circumstances, I can see them all being gentle and rough.

I think Raph would overall be the gentler one. He's HUGE, and he's terrified to break you. Your guys first couple times having sex is mainly just him using his mouth or fingers to get you ready to take his cock. He is mainly focused on your pleasure than his, though he does love when you try to make it up to him after. When he feels comfortable trying to go inside, that too is a process. He tends to take things very slow and gentle to make sure you can handle him, and once he knows you can then it can slowly ramp up to being rougher. You've... had to replace the bed several times cause Raph keeps breaking the headboard from gripping it too hard or the mattress frame caves in from force of the act itself. Mikey is 50/50. He doesn't have to worry as much about hurting you, but he is a sap for more slow and romantic sex. He loves just endlessly praising you and leaving kisses to your jaw, neck and shoulders while he slowly thrusts into you. But there are times where he can be rough. He likes the idea of having so much control over you, that he can control whether you cum or not- and how many orgasms he can pull out of you. Of course, he's still a huge sweetheart during aftercare- but more than once has he had to carry you to the bathroom to get you cleaned up because your legs feel like jelly. Who is the roughest is a tie between Leo and Donnie. While Raph ends up breaking more the things surrounding the two of you, the twins more often break you more than anything. Toys, ropes, collars, you name it- they have done it to you. Leo, the ever-smug bastard likes to tie you up and keep vibrating toys inside you. He'll sit back and watch as you squirm, moan and beg while he jerks himself off. This can sometimes last HOURS, depending on how merciful he's feeling. Though however, he is a sucker for soft sleepy sex. He'll hold you close to his plastron as he thrusts into you from behind, leaving little kisses on your shoulder as he whispers praise and how much he adores you. Donnie is fairly the same, though he does like to be more involved as he teases you with toys. As a sex machine is pumping into you, he'll throat fuck you at the same pace. Or he'll have you in his lap as he works, his cock stuffed into you but not allowing you to move while a vibrator is pressed against your clit on the lowest setting. He likes pushing your limits, always wanting to push just one more orgasm from you- just to see how much of a mess he can make you. Though he does have his moments where he just wants to appreciate you. He is HEAVY on the body worship, and will take his sweet time as he kisses and praises every inch of your beautiful skin.

So yeah, Raph is the roughest in terms of property damage- but Donnie is pretty much the roughest when it comes to breaking a person. But in terms of mating season, you are bound to bed rest for weeks no matter who it is.

[theteasetwrites]

Merciless Beauty

Chapter 11: You Are My Queen

❧ Pairing: Knight Daryl Dixon x Princess Reader ❧ Era: Medieval fantasy AU ❧ Pronouns: she/her ❧ Warnings: SMUT (18+ MDNI)—missionary, unprotected PiV (do not endorse, wrap it up), "fucked dumb" (more like "fucked tired") if you squint, food stuff (... idk it gets messy. Honey is involved.) ❧ Word Count: 10.2k

❧ Before You Read...

❧ Glossary

❧ In This Chapter: After the defeat of Negan and his Saviors, you are confronted with the pain of what you've experienced, and you must confide in Daryl. Of course, the bittersweet moment becomes a reunion fit for lovers.

❧ A/N: Um so hi! You guys didn't think I was never gonna finish this did you? I mean I wouldn't blame you if you did, but I did it! I mean, I tried. I had a few different ideas for how to end the series, and then I realized that this isn't quite the end. I am going to write an "Epilogue" chapter that will just be wrapping up everything with Ezekiel and basically the princess telling her dad about Daryl. But for now, this is the end! Now I gotta focus on Begin Again now that I finally have this done(ish). Hope you guys like it, and thank you for waiting <3

Far from the carnage and warfare, miles away in a secluded wood, the hearth burned brightly, illuminating the small cottage in a warm glow that seemed so distinct from the deep, dark night that surrounded outside. 

The scarlet wound on his thigh bubbling with vinegar and wine, you held a wooden spoonful of warmed honey, letting it drip slowly over the clean injury. After the bath you’d given him, he wore nothing, save for the loose drawstring braies of linen that reached just above his knee. 

Your delicate fingers spread the translucent liquid gold over the surrounding skin. Out of the corner of your eye, you kept note of his visage. Though his face was relaxed, and softened by the warm glow of the fire, he was stoic. No matter how you treated his wound, he did not flinch, or so much as show any signs of discomfort or pain. 

As you wrapped his leg with a clean gauze, you spoke to him, cutting through the silence that had settled between you for the last several minutes. 

“Does it not hurt?” you asked softly, barely above a whisper. 

“No,” he replied simply, though that was not entirely true. The blade had been the worst hurt of it, but now, it was only a dull sting. Perhaps so much pain in his life had heightened his tolerance, or dulled his sense. 

In fact, the sensation was pleasant. All he could really feel was the soft pads of your fingers gently spreading the liquid over his skin, the honey acting as a soothing agent after the cleansing properties of the wine and vinegar had settled into the open wound. 

Wrapping the last bit of gauze around his thigh, you gently folded the linen of his braises back over, a soft puff of air escaping your lips all the while. 

“You are brave,” you said, your eyes lifting with a gentle flutter of your lashes. 

With a shift of your legs from underneath you, you carefully replaced the spoon of honey into its jar, setting it aside upon the floor next to you. It felt good to no longer be upon your feet, now bandaged and clean after Daryl had so adamantly insisted that you let him do so. Now, though, you’d tend to him, after everything he’d done for you that night. 

But with the fortitude of a true knight, he did not show pain nor pride. He did not bask in any glory or relish in his victory. He did not shed a tear, his limp as he walked not slowing him down or keeping him from getting you to the safety of the cottage. Not only was he brave, but he was humble. The man you’d once called a sorry excuse for a knight had turned out to be a paragon of gallantry, though he never had to prove that to you. You’d known the error of your words since he returned to you that night so many moons ago, promising to take you beyond the walls without payment or worldly reward.

That seemed worlds away now. The way you’d looked at him then was a far cry from now, when before you was the embodiment of the greatest warmth and sweetness you’d ever felt. The swell in your chest had cut your breath short for a moment, while the knight shifted on the floor cushion upon which he sat, leaning forward to pull you closer by your hands, until you were cradled in his arms, your body curled up upon his lap and your head resting against his bare chest. 

That was when your breath came back, the soothing motions of his hands caressing your sides reminding you of the safety he gave you now. Negan was no more, the Saviors were no more, and soon, your father and the surviving militia would meet you here, but now, there was nothing in this world except him, and you. 

When time just began to crumble away, your eyes heavy with the promise of sleep, you were brought back to the surface of consciousness by his voice, steady and low.

“You are brave.”

A puff of amused air escaped your lips, though you did not contradict him, only listened as he spoke, that voice of his more soothing than the honey on his wound. 

“You killed Negan.” 

Though you could not regret your actions, you shivered at the thought of that moment, the knife driving into his back, the feeling of the blade tunneling through tissue and finally puncturing his frozen heart. It made you cling tighter to his chest, as if to cower from the memory that haunted you in the back of your mind. 

“If you hadn’t, I would not be here now, holding you.”

Indeed, that was what he was made for―holding you, serving you. Just as you clung tighter to him, he held you with more strength, not out of fear that you’d be taken from him again, but out of sheer devotion. 

“And I owe you my life.”

“No,” you replied, almost startling him as you lifted your head. As if by instinct, he held your chin softly, the calloused pad of his thumb stroking its soft skin in short, but slow, back and forth motions. “There is nothing that you owe to me. Certainly not your life.”

Though you remained stern in your expression of earnestness, his lips curled into a gentle smile. 

“I owe you everything. My life’s devoted to serving you, you know that.”

But as you looked at him, his eyes so full of love and hope for the future he had with you, there was still a hesitation inside you. It was like a parasite, worming its way inside your heart to keep you from fully embracing the comfort he brought you. It had not held such an effect on you, until now. Now that you could comprehend it, the hideous guilt that troubled you so. 

He could see it in your eyes now, too, as evidenced by his smile fading and his eyes, still filled with that same love, growing dim with concern. 

“What is it?”

To keep it from him would only cause more abject pain, but to hurt him, to tell him of the betrayal that you believed you had committed against him. How could you go on, now that the thought of that man’s cold, slimy hands all over you would not let you rest in the arms of the man who truly loved you?

And if you told him, would he rebuff you, disavow his love for you and never even hold you again? 

“Nothing,” you said, but the quiver in your slowly faltering voice betrayed you, and the feeling of a cold, dead hand strangled around your heart made you shiver. He brought you closer to his chest, where warmth briefly tore you from the icy snare of guilt and shame. It was only a temporary respite, though. The only way to rid yourself of this regret was to tell him. 

Another man’s mouth had been on yours, the salty, bitter taste of which you swore still lingered and made a mockery of your once pure lips. You’d truly never felt that Daryl had ever taken any purity from you. In fact, he made you more pure, but the bitterness of Negan’s filthy tongue had sullied you, you believed, and now you were nothing more than a broken woman, despite how whole you felt when he held you in his arms.

“Tell me,” he said, with that eerie whisper of knowing on his breath. Even the soothing circular movements of his splayed out hand on the small of your back were made with careful concern. Indeed, he knew that whatever troubled you must have been to do with what had transpired within the last week. 

Afterall, the blot of watercolor black and blue around your eye gave him an inkling, one which made anger well up in him like molten lava bubbling to the surface, igniting him with a kind of rage that was strong enough to bring that scum of a man back to life just to slice his head clean off a second time. And, oh, would he do it again if he had the chance, just to know, again and again and again, that the man who tormented his princess could never bring more harm to her, or anyone else.

“Daryl, I…” 

Your words having fizzled out into thin air, you shook your head and loosened yourself from his arms, as though you were unworthy of their embrace. The more you thought of that night, the more you believed that to be true.

“What happened?” he asked, his body beginning to stiffen as he mirrored you—both of you frozen in fear of whatever you would say, if you would say anything at all.

For a moment, he felt both weightless and heavy, in some kind of strange limbo wherein worry overtook his physicality before any words could confirm the worst of his fears. It washed the color from his face, where once a warm pink had blossomed from the feeling of the nearby hearth and your body so close to his, once again, after everything that had happened. 

Now, he could only begin to think of the heinous things that could’ve been done to you… Knowing how Negan had looked at you, how he touched you that night of the joust. There was something sinister in his eyes then, and now, there was a similar dread in your expression as you looked away from him, eyelids heavy and head downturned.

With a gentle hand on your shoulder, his instinct to hold you too strong to completely ignore without at least a single touch, he began to speak again—voice quiet yet raspy. 

“Did he… did he touch you?”

Of course, he had, but what Daryl meant by his words seemed deeper than their surface level definition. The vitriol in his voice, the sting of the word touch, which once might have been so much more beautiful on his lips, was palpable, lacerating your heart further. If it wasn’t for the pain of the guilt, you would still feel the hurt of the sadness in his voice. 

You raised your eyes to meet his, though his face was blurred in the haze of your tears. A kind of shocked concern shaped his expression as he held your cheek with so much delicateness, as though you were but an assemblage of rose petals sewn together with gossamer twine.

He spoke your name now, low and almost a whisper. There was something so earnest about that, the way he called you only by your name and nothing else. No title, no epithet. Just you, just a woman, but not just a woman at all—a woman for whom he’d give the skin off his back to keep warm. 

With his fingers laced delicately through your hair, he begged you with his eyes, glassy and clear, almost translucent to the point you swore you could see his soul bared before you. Even just in his stare, he made himself vulnerable to you, and soon, whatever fear you had of him turning on you melted under that comforting, warm gaze. Just for a moment, you gave in, and used your tongue to forcibly tear out the words that were stuck in your throat. 

But still, you could not look at him as you spoke.

“Yes, he…” Your voice trailed off, followed by a deep breath of air you’d hoped would give you the strength to continue, but it only brought forth the tears that threatened to give way.

Two big arms encircled you hesitantly, slowly enough to allow you to break free had you not craved his touch, but his touch was all that could give you peace now. No further questions were needed, he surmised. He wasn’t sure he could even bear to know more of what was done to you, so he kept you in his grasp, which you did not fight. 

With a shaky voice, he spoke against your cheek as he held onto you. Your head found a cradle in his shoulder, where tears wetted his bare skin. On his breath was a gentle shhh sound, like a light breeze rustling the leaves of an ancient oak in cool night air. It comforted you, along with the steady motion of his hands on your back, moving in slow, languid circles. 

But no longer could you only contain your emotions to your sobs. Now, you raised your head and faced him, looking him sharply in the eye despite the pain that singed your heart with each syllable:

“I had a plan,” you began. “I… I only wanted to get close to him. He called me to his chambers… I had a knife. I let him touch me…” Once again, you could no longer hold his gaze. You continued on, now tripping over your own words as you scrambled to explain, through a tear-soaked voice that trembled in fear of whatever reaction you’d receive. “Only just with his lips… His filthy lips. Then as soon as I could, I tried to stab him. I swear, all I wanted was to get close to him, long enough to kill him.”

The knight only looked at you with a steady gaze, one that only softened with each passing moment. You felt his arms tighten around you, and you weren’t sure if it was an attempt to comfort you, or to suffocate you. Either way, you would’ve died a thousand times to feel that touch.

But you longed most of all, now, to know exactly what he was thinking. To hear those words you knew must’ve been brewing inside that head of his—those words that would crush you under the weight of their rebuke. Though those words never came, no shame or disappointment, only another kind of pain in his eyes. A pain that was born of your sadness as each tear you shed sent a new wave of agony through his aching body.

Shakily, you whispered to him, pleading in all but words for him to tell you how much he hated you for betraying him, for letting another man touch you. “My love… Won’t you end my suffering and speak to me?”

At times, Daryl’s movements carried more meaning that any service his vocal cords could provide. All he could do in that moment was hold you by your cheeks, his thumbs meandering in circles to gently rub the tears into your skin. 

And, finally, he did speak, but his words caught you off guard far more than you thought possible. 

“What are you afraid of, princess?”

Afraid of?

“I… I do not understand.”

“The look in your eyes, the fear. You look afraid of me. Why?”

You swallowed back the lump in your throat as you shook your head, both in denial and in confusion. “I do not fear you.”

Quite the contrary, you wanted nothing more for him to hold you until your heart gave out. 

“I—I fear that you will detest me,” you continued, now trying desperately to let your tears drown out your words. “I fear I’ve betrayed you.”

In your mind, you had, and Daryl would have had every right to leave you now: alone and pitiful. Though he didn’t. He only kept his eyes on yours, and though you had a shameful urge to look away, you could not tear your gaze from his. There was no spite in his eyes, no bitterness or loathing. Not even anger. 

All you could see in his eyes was the same gentleness, the same kindness and utter servitude that he devoted to you with each passing moment his eyes took you in. That sentiment had always been there, nothing had changed, no matter what you could say. It would never change. There was no enmity there, only the strength of his love for you. 

His hands held your cheeks still, pulling you gently closer until his forehead softly touched yours. The feeling made you shudder, as though still you could never fully comprehend the sensation his touch gave to you. You were sure that you would never get quite used to that feeling, though you never wanted to. That sense of novelty was a pleasant sensation all on its own. 

“My princess,” he said, his grainy voice barely above a whisper as his nose touched yours. His lips began to upturn ever so slightly into the softest smile, natural and sweet. “There’s nothin’ you could do to make me think that.” 

As you shuddered a shaky breath, he held you closer still. You let out a heavy sigh, one that felt like it had been lingering deep inside you ever since you escaped the Sanctuary.

“You’re trembling,” he said, running his coarse fingertips along the exposed skin of your neck, until his hand met the loose neckline of his chemise that you borrowed, draped over you more like a dress than a shirt as the oversized garment reached just below your thighs. He leaned back to look at you, still sniffling back tears. With a strong hand, he swept back your hair to nestle it in the warm crevice behind your ear. 

“You cold?” he asked, already beginning to tug a blanket from under a nearby cushion. “Here—”

“No.” Your suddenness nearly startled him. It reminded you just how fragile he was, no matter how reluctant he was to show it. “I’m all right.”

Daryl knew, though, that you still could not shake the guilt, like a vulture’s ravenous gnawing at your heart. He knew you too well, so well that it almost frightened him. There was no one else with whom he could see through, whose transparency reflected a deep, intrinsic understanding beyond conscious comprehension. The depths of you were overwhelming, but he could never fight the profound urge to navigate them, despite the sadness that his love’s empathy could bring.

With a deep breath of his own, he brought you back to his lap. The ease with which he could manipulate your body with the most gentle yet sudden caress would never fail to momentarily paralyze you. You melted into his arms once again. It was only a matter of time before you became completely at his mercy, though there was absolutely no part of you that protested, except maybe that last shred of guilt. 

“You know I love you,” he said. “You know I serve you.” You must have broken out into a smile, because he, too, smiled. “And you know that you’re here now. You’re alive. Whatever you did to get here, whatever I did to get here… They’re sacrifices—risks.”

You found your hands returning to his body, their place on his broad, firm shoulders solidified like indentations in concrete. Swallowing hard, you felt a chill run through you, but it was not from the fear of losing him now—it was the effect of his touch, his hands having found their way beneath the shirt he lent you, sprawled out over your back, stroking in gentle rhythms. 

“Daryl.” Your voice seemed to crumble under the pressure of the air that you spoke shakily into, the utterance of his name so delicate upon your trembling lips. “What I did, it haunts me. Perhaps you can forgive me, but how will I forgive myself, when I let that man—”

He did not let you utter another word before he interrupted, his own voice soft with sympathy. How he could remain so patient with you in this state, you would never know.

“I know your heart, I know you.” Now he all but forced your weary head to rest upon his chest, where the gentle beating of his heart warmed your cheek. “The only anger I have is for the man who touched you, not you.”

But still, it was hard for you to forget. The only cure to that ailment seemed to be Daryl’s touch, his assurance that he loved you beyond what words could convey. You needed his touch, but not just skin to skin. There was more, a lingering desire that floated between you perpetually, yet was stronger now than ever before. 

It was a desire that penetrates, that longs to be penetrated. The kind that only lovers of the truest caliber could satisfy in the company of one another, the company which you had been deprived of for far too long. 

The pestilence Sir Negan left for you to wallow in would only be destroyed by the greatest expression of love—that which made all pain and sorrow and suffering pale in comparison to the feeling of knowing that your heart was in the safe hands of no one else but him, your lover. 

Your knight. 

When silence overcame you, he uttered your name softly against one cheek, while his hand delicately brushed over the other. If he touched you anywhere else, you might crumble into a million pieces, like an ancient Grecian statue carved from the most fragile marble. 

Only the faint crackle of the fire in the hearth could be heard against your soft breaths caressing the shell of his ear, while your hands crept carefully up his chest, brushing over the creases of his underarms to grasp at his shoulders. They felt so hard, so firm and unbreakable. You held them tighter now, and in response, he tightened his arms around your waist to bring you ever closer, until your lips found his.

The kiss was tender, light, each of your lips dancing softly over the other’s. With a tilt of his head and a brief respite, he caught your lips again, this time more firmly, yet still somehow cautious. 

Perhaps he’d never grow completely forthcoming in his lust for you, which seemed almost sacrilegious, yet somehow sacred. He knew that he’d be killed for this, but how on God’s green earth was he going to keep his hands off you? How could any star up above in those vast, empyreal heavens compare to the gleam in your eyes when he uttered your name, each syllable dripping with honeyed cadence? How could the rich, melodic refrain of any skilled bard’s lute come close to the dulcet sighs that tickled his ears so delectably, almost tauntingly? How could there be anything more soft, more supple, than your body—that which occupied his thoughts far more often than he could ever truly admit? 

Even your scent roused his most lustful thoughts, that sweet citrusy musk entangled with heady notes of the most intoxicating rose, the petals of which could not compare to the plump, velvety lips he traced his work-worn thumb over now, parting them gently until a sliver of darkness formed, with just a flash of white where your teeth could be seen. 

Finally, those lips opened just a bit more to speak again. “I want to forget that night,” you said. “I want to forget everything that’s happened… besides you.”

Truly, nothing was of consequence to you now, but him. You wanted to be enveloped in him. To be absorbed in him. To be one with him.

If he hadn’t been so lost in the vibrant hue of your glittering eyes, speckled with sparks alight from the nearby hearth, he might’ve noticed the feeling of your hands exploring his bare chest, your palms melting against the buttery surface of those defined muscles. When the sparkle in your eye lost his attention, he did feel it—that soft touch with just a hint of something more… indecent.

With a slow, meandering movement, never taking those silvery blue eyes from yours, he took both of your hands in his, where they rested so delicately in the strong cradle of his warm palms. He brought them to his lips, the touch of which was so featherlight that you could barely even hear the sound of them pressing an ever so sweetly suggestive kiss to your hands. 

It was then that the chemise you wore slid slowly off your shoulder, its size much too big for your frame. With even just your collarbone and the slope of your neck now exposed, much to the delight of his increasingly wandering eyes, he knew there was no escape from the desperation you awakened in him. Only it was not just desperation, but the insatiable urge to provide for you the comfort you so needed. It was written clear as day in your eyes.

Even so, you could not let the heavy air between you go without another plea, though it seemed to him almost like a command—from a princess to a knight.

“Make me forget.”

And so he obliged, not with another kiss, but with a tight grip on your waist, lifting you until you sat upon his lap, where the heat of his center warmed the bare underside of your thighs. After he took a moment to gather his thoughts in the midst of his sudden haste, he did not keep you in that position for long. The feeling of your weight upon his lap was too divine, nearly too much. If he took you now with too much urgency, that which was so strong he could hardly hide it, he might reach the peak of his pleasure much too soon. 

So you were caught in a slight whirlwind for just a moment, in one last burst of quickness punctuated by a low, raspy rumble in his voice. Now you were laid out rather ungracefully, resting on piles of weaved woolen blankets and furs strewn loosely upon the floor. 

There was not as much hesitation now, having already seen your body in its most bare form. He lifted the chemise over your head with ease, and when the fabric no longer obscured your vision, you met his face—a gentle, almost unnoticeable curl of his lip. 

Above you, his eyes took their time roaming your chest, but not just your breasts. There was a delicateness to you everywhere—the slope of your collarbones, the way your shoulders rolled as you started to grow aroused, the pulsing of the strained tendons in your neck. 

But before he could bring his lips to kiss your neck as he so deliberately planned on doing, he noticed the now tipped over jar of amber-colored honey slowly dripping from the lip of the vessel onto the floor, not far from where your hair had been strewn about amidst the sudden movements of passion. Those same movements must’ve caused the nearby jar to lose its balance. 

Now brought to his attention, the silken honey seemed to shimmer with a warm, enticing glow. His heavy, blown-out eyes returned to your body, now with a sparkle of mischief, perhaps. You weren’t entirely sure, as you’d rarely seen such a quality in his gaze before.

In a trance of combined anticipation and confusion as the man held his half-naked body over yours, you looked up at him with innocent questioning. 

“My knight?” you asked quietly, your voice only a faint, fragile whisper, delicate as a butterfly’s wing. “You seem confounded.” A soft tickle of laughter trailed off from your voice. “Does something trouble you? You moved with such vigor only a moment ago.”

He was unsure of how to explain in words the idea that came to him then, though you seemed to have grown accustomed to his sometimes reticent nature. That would prove to work in his favor now, as he all but remained silent in response to your questioning, opting instead only to scoop a bit of honey onto his index and middle fingers, slowly removing them from the jar with a hefty glob of the sticky substance. 

You turned your head to watch in confusion, which quickly became concern.

“Does your wound need more honey? Does it hurt?”

“No,” he replied simply, with a more serious tone of lust to his deep, gravelly voice, the vibrations of which sent a fresh shiver down your spine. 

For several moments, you were held hostage by his gaze, which roamed down the expanse of your neck. Your heavy breathing told him what he needed to know—the way your chest heaved with each passing second. You craved him, more than ever before, perhaps. With each new breath, he swore he could hear a slight pleaing whimper just trailing behind. 

Without another moment’s hesitation, he brought his honey-drenched fingers to your lips, already slightly agape. 

But he did not want to force the liquid into your mouth, only to coat your lips in its sweetness. 

So he traced the shape of your lips, leaving behind a trail of gold sheen to glaze the soft, plump skin. Despite your slight disorientation, you allowed him to do as he pleased. After all, there was no other way to forget the pain of all that you’d experienced. No other way to be completely enveloped in the pleasure of love. 

Soon you could taste the honey seeping into your mouth, dripping slowly onto your tongue. It tasted sweet, of course, but as his lips gently pressed to yours, the taste seemed even sweeter. 

Between your lips was a sticky mess of warm sighs and saccharine wetness, with his tongue invading your mouth impatiently, swirling feverishly as your hands reached up to grasp at his shoulders. 

Your touch ignited a fire in him, deep in the pit of his stomach, from which a guttural moan melted into your mouth. 

And he knew there was more of your body that he needed, more skin he could drench in the warm nectar of the honey, more skin he could lick clean. 

A fragile sigh escaped your trembling lips as he separated himself from you abruptly, though the disappointment in your voice compelled him to return to your honeyed lips for just a moment to kiss them in an offer of apology for his momentary departure. 

He separated once more, leaning to the side to find the jar of honey, and immediately collecting another hefty, dripping glob of golden syrup. 

There was a shaky whimper in your voice when he trailed his honey-drenched fingers over your breast, circling slowly around the nipple. 

The more he applied to the soft tissue of your nipple, the more the substance globbed and began to drip slowly, like molasses, down the slope of your breast, making your back arch at the tickling sensation. 

The knight could only watch your breast become drenched in translucent golden liquid, the subtle scent tempting him to come closer, until you could feel his warm breath against your heaving chest. 

An absent-minded sigh escaped your quivering lips, with his name: “Daryl…”

Just as he heard it, his own name spoken on the wings of a swan’s breath, his flattened tongue caught a plump drip of gold slowly making its way down your breast.

He licked upwards then, reaching the hardened bud of your nipple, where his tongue circled eagerly now, yet with a slowness just enough to delay your pleasure, to properly torment you with his toying attention.

But his own temptation prompted him to take the whole sweetened nipple into his mouth, which craved above all else to taste every inch of you—the delicate, virtuous princess writhing naked underneath him as he made use of your body to the fullest extent of his desire.

With his mouth upon your aroused nipple, he suctioned his lips, now himself becoming too impatient to merely kiss the engorged flesh. 

The feeling sent your head reeling backwards against the pillow, with a low, breathy moan. Each kiss made you cry out louder, more impatiently as your body craved more of his kisses. 

But what he wanted was more honey.

So he took the jar again, this time tilting it so that the golden liquid began to drizzle in zigzag patterns over your chest, then your stomach.

Now you felt drenched in honey, sticky with it. Not to the point of discomfort, but amusement at his fascination with it, his tongue now licking up the trail.

You let out a quiet laugh, your voice low and sultry as you began to speak. “You’re making a mess of me.”

He did not stop lapping up at the drizzled honey, except to look up at you with a subtle mischief gleaming in his eyes of quicksilver blue for a few moments, long enough to say, “A very sweet mess.”

Soon his lips returned to yours, while his chest pressed against yours in a sticky embrace. You couldn’t help but laugh softly against my mouth, while your hands reached up to loosely tangle in the soft umber colored tresses upon his head. 

And it felt like heaven to him then—your softness underneath him, your own sweet taste overpowering the saccharine honey, the tickle of your laugh fluttering against his lips, the slight scratch of your fingernails upon his scalp, the intoxicating warmth between your legs opening up to take him in as your legs wrapped around his waist. 

That eagerness of yours made him snicker. Unable to resist the urge to chide you a bit, he pulled his lips away for a moment.

“Your highness seems restless,” he said, nodding his nose against yours with a small but wicked smile curling to one side of his face. “I thought princesses were supposed to be patient and proper.”

With a tilt of your head, you glared up at him, only with a very slight sense of playful annoyance.

“You know nothing of patience or propriety, depraved knight. It is you who so wantonly tempts my resolve… Who compels me to crave your devilish touch, which causes my weary mind such carnal turmoil.”

The knight’s quiet laugh seeped out from the charmingly crooked crack in his lips. With a low hum, somewhere between amusement and lust, he leaned down to kiss his increasingly restless princess once more.

When the kiss broke, he brushed the back of his hand against your heated cheek in soothing motions as he spoke softly against your slightly pouty agape lips. 

“Those are big words,” he said, with a low rumble of laughter underscoring his scratchy voice. “They sure sound pretty on your lips.”

As your hands absentmindedly roamed the broad expanse of his heaving chest, the muscles underneath the hair-speckled flesh flexing under your soft touch, you met his gaze from above you with a mischievous glimmer in your eye.

“My love,” you hummed softly, your eyelashes fluttering slowly against his cheek as his mouth roamed aimlessly over yours. “You torment me with your caresses… Your sweet touch.”

“You said it was devilish,” he replied between kisses, using your dramatized words against you. 

“It is,” you laughed softly. “Devilish and sweet. But it’s your touch. I wish to feel it every moment of every day and every night for all eternity, and the eternity after that, and before that, and every eternity in between.”

Daryl’s hand lifted to the side of your face, gently placing a strand of unruly hair behind your ear, to continue his increasingly feverish onslaught of kisses on your other cheek. 

“Yes, your highness,” he replied, much to your amusement. “Whatever you want, it’s yours.”

“Mm, you’re mine.”

After a momentary pause, he seemed to turn more serious—almost frightening—as he grabbed you with more impatient vigor, your arms having no choice but to cling around his neck. With your face surrounded by soft tresses of brown hair, you let out an instinctive cry, as though he was a predator and you were prey, about to be devoured. Though there was nothing in your biology that compelled you to fight him off. You’d accepted your fate, and you welcomed it.

Your weight was suddenly cradled by the softness of the bed beneath you, though your legs were still wrapped tightly around Daryl’s waist. That did not keep him restrained for long, for he soon unraveled himself from your entanglement and began to strip himself of his worn linen braies.

There was hardly any time to marvel at his anatomy—he soon climbed back over you, catching your breath with his mouth once again. You could at least feel his now unhindered length, though. You could feel it harden between your legs, where the warmth of your soft thighs made his cock begin to twitch from the pressure. 

As though your body wasn’t close enough for his liking, he looped his arm under the arch of your back, lifting you up just enough to feel your belly pressed against his. If he concentrated enough, he swore he could feel the delicate fluttering of your excitement inside you.

The tingling became stronger now, his body moving above you with enough rhythm to force his cock against the fleshy folds between your legs. The feeling was still so foreign, having only felt it in its fullest form once before, but you knew that tingle just from the sight of him, the smell of him, the taste of him. He did not even need to touch you there to make your body react in such a way, you were certain. 

Taking notice of your soft moans against his lips, and the slight gyration of your body, he used his free hand to find the warmth that so enticed him. His fingers settled in that crevice, staying still for a moment, until by some impulse they began to move. Up and down, up and down… A rhythmic motion not unlike the way the rest of his body moved, too. For your part, you broke the kiss to let out a moan that could not be contained by the velvet cage of his adoring mouth any longer. 

“Oh!”

Your head had tilted back so far that your neck was now exposed, completely subject to his will. As his hand moved not faster, but with more pressure, more insistence, he trailed his lips down your jawline, leaving messy, imprecise kisses along your perfumed skin. 

Applying increasing pressure, he sank his fingertips into you, that warm, sodden opening between your legs. The sensation was still so new, though the slight burning pain was less than before. You only clenched your teeth slightly, feeling his fingers extend deeper within you, curling upwards toward your belly. 

For a moment, he could not pay attention to anything but the way you felt—the way your body reacted to his invasion. Your passageway seemed to pulse around his fingers ever so slightly, as if it was some innate reaction, coercing his fingers further.

He only noticed your slight discomfort when he looked at you, your eyes shut tight. He pressed his lips to your cheek, his hair falling in your face. It was soft, yet ticklish, like a curtain of brown feathers draped over you.

“You all right?” he asked, his voice a soft, soothing whisper. If his touch wasn’t pleasing you enough, his voice so gentle and yet gruff was sure to push you over the edge of pleasure and into the realm of extraordinary bliss. “Tell me if I hurt you.”

“It doesn’t hurt. It’s only slight… You’re quite gentle.”

Against your cheek, you could feel his lips curl into a smile. All the while, his fingers moved slowly, back and forth, migrating between the shallow part of you, and the deepest part.

“Do you like it this way, your highness? Slow… gentle? I could go faster, but I don’t wanna hurt you.”

With a laugh, you shook your head, amused. “You could hurt me and it would still feel like heaven.”

He smiled down at you, then pressed another kiss to those plump, agape lips, sparkling with wetness and trembling with desire. Daryl was never a particularly confident man, but something about the way you wanted him, craved him beyond anything he’d ever known, he felt like he had the whole world in his hands. 

And now, he felt the world quake and shiver round his curled fingers, an accumulation of warm wetness pooling where his knuckles breached the entrance of your body in repetitive motions. Coupled with the aching softness of your uncontrollable moans were the sounds of his fingers moving inside you, the rhythmic, involuntary squeezing of the canal creating drenched and airy sighs of its own. 

As his fingers pulsed inside of you, you clung tightly to his shoulders, the tan, sun-freckled skin stretched thinly over defined muscles. A strained sigh escaped your lips as your fingers dug into his skin. Daryl’s pace slowed steadily to keep you from coming too soon, but he knew you were so very close. 

It amused him a little, the way your body was so sensitive to his touch. He found arousal in the way he could so easily bring you the ultimate pleasure, and the way he could withhold it at will. Despite how subservient he was to you, he could not help but revel in the dominance that came over him when so much control of your perfect body was given willingly over to him.

But you sighed and pouted as his fingers paused inside of you. Opening your eyes, you tilted your head and looked up at him—he traced your jawbone with his finger, while the fingers he had inside you playfully wiggled upwards to make you shiver.

“Daryl,” you sighed, not quite sure what else to say but his name.

In response, he smiled as hazy silvery blue eyes roamed your face, taking in each and every flawless feature. “You’re so beautiful… My sweet angel. I’d like to have you like this forever.”

Though your heart fluttered at his sweet words, you could only muster a few words, as your body anticipated its release: “Do not stop.”

But he did the opposite, removing his fingers altogether and leaving you throbbing, writhing desperately as you groaned softly. 

Panting, he sat up, lifting himself up from the bed to look at you, taking you in for a moment as he decided on what to do next. After all, he was leading the way. 

Before you could say another word, or even lift up your head to see what he was up to, you felt his hands wrap around your ankles, pulling you towards him as he stood at the end of the bed. 

You managed a surprised exclamation at the sudden jolt, your legs now spread just wide enough to fit his body as he climbed over you, his weight holding you against the bed. Now he kissed you again, with lips and tongue moving wildly over yours. Lost in this passion, you found your hands exploring the wide, muscular surface of his back, moving in erratic circles. With each flex of his muscles underneath your soft palms, you let out a breathy sigh, swallowed by his mouth on yours. 

As much as you craved his kiss, you knew you craved the hardness between his legs that was pulsing against your sodden entrance more. It was so close to being inside you, so close to that feeling you had only known once before, that you coveted ever since he first made love to you. There was an overwhelming emptiness there always now, where you hadn’t quite felt one before. You had known the carnal pleasures of sex, and now it was like a curse of desire had overtaken you. Not a desire just for the feeling, but for him, and the feeling only he could give to you. 

He felt your desire, too. It only heightened his own as his lower body moved against yours, assuaging his hunger for the embrace of your body just enough to keep him from spoiling this moment of closeness with his impatience. You deserved more than a quick burst of passion that ended in an underwhelming sensation of relief. That was what he’d only known before, after all―mindless, loveless moments with nameless, faceless women who could satisfy his purely biological need in the most practical exchange of goods. These occasions were few and far between, but never satiating beyond that primal desire. This was unlike anything he’d felt before, and to make love to someone, real love, was a change of pace he had to orient himself with. A most welcome change, of course. 

But he could not hold out much longer, he knew this of his body well enough. So at last he pulled his lips away from yours, his focus turning to the space where your bodies were so close to connecting. He reached down, with a series of gruff pants escaping between his lips, to bring the tip of his cock to your entrance. 

There was just a tickle of his flesh brushing against yours, but it was enough to elicit a shiver and a sigh against his sweat-dripping cheek. There, you pressed your lips to his face, with the salt of his clammy skin on your tongue. As he slowly entered you, you felt your body loosen, no longer tense with need, but now just beginning to feel full and warm. 

And with a deep, guttural moan, he buried himself further. Despite how slow he tried to move, he could not waste another moment―he did not want for anything in this moment but to be completely inside of you. 

The feeling lingered for a while as both of your bodies rested in place. He did not move, neither did you. There was only the erratic beating of your hearts and the heavy breaths escaping your lips. Daryl’s head found its place in the space between your head and your shoulder, where he found refuge in the warmth of your hair, scented with galgant and cloves. 

Though you could bask forever in the feeling of him inside you, still and deep, your desire was to feel him move again. 

As if on their own accord, your hands moved swiftly down his back to squeeze the flesh of his buttocks, as you’d call it. Ass, as he would call it, you were sure. The feeling elicited a laugh which tickled your cheek. 

“Where did you learn to do that, princess?”

“Nowhere,” you replied, just as he lifted himself up to look down upon you. There was a look of playfulness in his eyes, with a considerable amount of increasingly impatient lust. It excited you more, so you moved yourself as much as you could in an attempt to feel the friction of his cock inside you. 

Amused at your clumsy wiggling, he relented with a subtle swirl of his hips and a movement of his body which pulled him further out of you, until he slowly buried himself deeper again. 

His arms propped up the bulk of his weight as he moved in and out of you at increasing pace, his breath becoming more and more ragged all the while. Nothing could hold him back as he began to lose control of himself. Every cell in his body screamed for release, and he couldn’t slow down now. His lower body moved faster with each thrust that shook you to your core, where the tingly feeling of pleasure was building up inside once again.

Wide-eyed and breathless, your hands moved to his shoulders in an attempt to keep yourself steady, but it was no use. His sheer physical strength and size was enough to make your body practically seize from the force of his thrusts. In these desperate, hungry movements, there was a deep reverence—a kind of devotion you’d never known before, not even as a princess. He made love to you like it was an act of worship, in every conceivable way.

From the way he focused on you, as though the sun and stars revolved around you, to the feeling of his body making every frantic, passionate movement not only to sate his need, but to please you, he wanted nothing more than to serve you, as was his sworn oath.

And as you came closer to losing control of your loins, your body squeezed and writhed around him. In a fit of pleasure, so close to the precipice of bliss, your back arched and your head was thrown backwards with an involuntary spasm, as your legs clenched tight around his waist to draw him further into you. 

He was so deep, and you felt so full. The pain was there, lingering, as you were stretched open again and again. In all your ignorance, a part of you feared he’d tear you open, but you trusted him—your gallant, noble knight.

Now your hands held for dear life to his upper arms, where well-worn and well-defined muscles gleamed with sweat and ached with each part of him that needed release, which was soon to come. Your heavy, quickened breaths formed a pattern that seemed to match his, with occasional moans, groans, and even a slight curse or two escaping his tightened lips. 

And soon, a sudden wave of vibrations overtook you—that sensation you’d been dreaming of since the first night he bedded you. It was like a hurricane sweeping through your body, each new pulse of tingling pleasure surging through you like a strong gust of wind that left you squirming and crying out underneath him. 

It was a feast for his eyes to see you like this, and to know just how much power his love held over you. With each gasp, each breathy moan, each soft convulsion that contorted your body, he lost himself in your bliss. 

He couldn’t help but kiss your trembling lips as your legs wrapped tighter around his waist, pulling his body further against you and into your pulsing center. This feeling, along with the soft dance of his tongue across and around yours, drew him closer to his own release.

It had been buried deep in the back of his mind from the moment he realized you were taken—that terrible longing, tainted by the fear that never again would he feel this again. Of course he knew the most important thing was rescuing you and returning you home safe, but there was that selfish part of him that desired you carnally, because once was not enough. 

Now that you were safe, he feared he’d never be able to go another second without you again.

So, with a final deep thrust and a hearty groan, he let his body go. He was quick enough to free himself from you, releasing the buildup of his arousal onto the soft inside of your thigh. 

The warmth tickled you slightly as it trickled down. You watched through hazy, lidded eyes as Daryl’s hand stroked his pulsing cock until it was rendered limp as if with exhaustion. His body drooped over yours, his head cradled against your shoulder. Fast, heavy breaths warmed your neck. In a matter of seconds, he caught his breath enough to catch your lips with his once more.

Heady air thick with the scent of honey and sex swirled between your bodies, moving languidly beneath the fur blanket Daryl had draped over the two of you somewhere between lazy, sweaty kisses and tangled arms. 

Tonight was different than the first night you made love. That night, the passionate fire he stoked inside of you kept your mind alert enough to stay awake with him into the wee hours of the morning, murmurs of dreams and worries slipping between your lips. Tonight, you could hardly keep your eyes open once you’d felt your body sink into the straw-filled cot beneath you. 

Daryl, in his lust, hadn’t noticed you’d begun to drift off as he showered you in kisses. When your hands began to slowly lose their tight, needful grip on his shoulders, he let his lips separate from yours with a smile. Your head sank like an anchor onto the pillow beneath you. With your last sensation the feeling of your knight’s lips pressed gently to your temple, you entered a deep, much-needed sleep.

The night was still when you awoke in a slight daze, colored a deep brownish orange from the flicker of the dying hearth. Your newborn senses clung to the feeling of the soft fur beneath your outstretched hand, where once Daryl lay. 

You stirred awake at the realization of his absence. Sitting up, the fur blanket fell from your body to expose your naked breasts. A sudden shock dispelled any last remnants of sleep. You weren’t at all accustomed to sleeping in the nude, after all.

Moreover, you feared something, though you weren’t quite sure what, had happened to your knight.

As you raised yourself from the modest cot to dress yourself in the once discarded chemise, you could not help the fearful thought of whatever remained of the Saviors taking Daryl from you, leaving you alive in some cruel, twisted act of revenge for the death of their leader.

But as you stepped outside, into the darkness of the early morning, Daryl’s voice, grainy and soft, came to you through the crisp air. In your slight daze from waking just moments ago, it took you a moment or two to recognize his voice speaking your name. 

Your eyes caught up faster than your ears when you turned to see him, illuminated only by the light of a small lantern placed on the pebbled ground near his feet. He was dressed already, a simple tunic of linen white, with a wool cloak of deep indigo on his back. The closer you stepped towards him, the more the almost crimson glow of the majestic Friesian’s coat shimmered to distinguish the creature from the black of night. 

“Phantom?” you spoke softly, rubbing your sleep-heavy eyes as if to wake yourself from a dream. You’d almost forgotten about the loyal steed, and it was hard to imagine him surviving the chaos of the battle just hours ago, but then again, you survived. 

Phantom seemed to perk up at the sound of your voice. He lifted his head to meet your eyes, and left the side of his master to slowly come towards you. The gentle creature’s muzzle seemed to slide perfectly between your delicate hands as he huffed a breath of air. After a few moments of accepting your pets, he raised his head to nuzzle your shoulder, nearly putting you off balance with the sheer force of the large animal’s affections.

Daryl flinched for a moment, about ready to lunge forward to catch you if you fell, but you caught yourself with your back foot, laughing despite the slight pain of the raw blisters that began to form there from last night’s escapades. 

“Oh, I am so glad to see you.” The horse lowered his head as if in reverence, some kind of formal acknowledgement of your voice. You ran your fingers through Phantom’s silky forelock, which you knew to be quite pleasing to the destrier. “I thought I might never do so again.”

“He found his way home.” Daryl’s voice came closer, until you felt the warmth of his chest against your back. His chin rested upon your shoulder, a comforting weight. “Like he always does.”

Daryl’s arms squeezed tight around your waist, pulling you flush against him. While still lavishing attention upon the rather needy horse before you, you closed your eyes and took in his scent of pine and honey. But you did not stay still long, turning to see his face you’d dreamed of, just to remember that he was real. Phantom, though, huffed in slight disappointment.

“When will my father come?” you asked quietly. Something about the stillness and the darkness of the early morning, just a matter of time before the sun would begin to rise, made you whisper. 

Daryl’s chin lifted towards the distant horizon, where the first sliver of dawn slowly parted the darkness of night to give in to the pale light of morning. 

“He said we’d meet here at first light. Should be any moment now.” 

Daryl’s mind drifted elsewhere. Last night’s events had left him with a whirlwind of emotions and revelations. Negan’s death brought with it the triumph of war, the splendor of victory that he knew well from practically a lifetime of battle. And with war came the inevitable grief of countless lives lost. Daryl’s thoughts lingered on the duke, the prince, and the rogue Savior who’d helped them. He wondered if they’d made it out of the dungeon alive. 

And when those thoughts gave way to the realization that, within only a matter of time, you would return to the arms of your father, and no longer would you be his. The king would never understand your love for each other. Why should he, anyway? Daryl was of lowly birth, even if he was a knight. As much as he wanted to believe King Ezekiel would allow him to marry you, he knew he was more likely to end up headless at the mere suggestion. 

As he held you now, and as he knew you in the most sacred passions of love that you had shared, you were not just a princess, but his princess. When you were away from him, the world around you blissfully unaware of the truth, you were just a princess. Not his, at least as far as the world was concerned. Despite all logic, he knew there would need to be a time when the love between you was not hidden in the shadows of the forest. 

Daryl’s pensiveness was not lost on you now. You felt him cling tighter to you as he looked off into the distance, a heaviness in his face. Your hand caressed his cheek with enough pressure to bring his attention back to you. His expression became lighter by just a tad, but whatever plagued his thoughts was still lingering. 

“What is it, my love?” 

“Nothing, I just…” He trailed off, shaking his head as if to rid himself of these worries. “I wish  we had more time.”

Where there was once a look of concern blossomed a sweet smile that was almost potent enough to make him forget your father altogether. 

“We always have time. We will make time, like we always have.”

But in your heart, you knew what he meant, and you felt the same. How long could you go on like this, hiding your love from your father? Escaping into the woods to consummate your love in secret? For as much as you loved him, and as sure as you were that your heart belonged to no one else, you were not sure how you could keep your love a secret much longer.

Still, the time would come when you could tell your father. You were sure of that. 

“You told me that you’d marry me,” you whispered, lips fluttering against the soft hairs of his cheek. “You said someday, you’d marry me. And a knight always keeps his promise, especially to his lady.”

The knight let out a huff, then soon found himself nuzzled into the warmth of your hair, where memories of every moment spent in your company curled around his face in a deep, honey-scented embrace. 

“Someday,” he murmured. “I promise you, my princess.”

When his lips touched yours, he felt your tremble against the cold. He pulled the cloak from his back to swing it around you and wrap you in a woolen cocoon. Pulling you ever closer, your chest was heated by the fire that seemed to perpetually burn in his. Another longer, deeper kiss, then a smile shared between the two of you.

“Perhaps one day, I will be your queen.”

His warm hands rubbed your back in steady motions as his eyes traced dreamily over your face, each curve and crevice and color another feature he would keep to memory for in those moments when he could not hold you. He wanted for nothing in this moment—everything he could’ve dreamt of wanting was here, in the shape of you.

“You are my queen.”

A new heat rouged your cheeks and ignited your heart. To be his queen seemed to be the greatest height you could ever reach, if only it meant you were the queen of his heart. 

Dawn stained the sky with rich hues of rosy orange and dusty violet as you fell into another kiss, though your lips would be torn away by the distant sound of clopping hooves coming closer beyond the horizon. Not just a handful, but nearly hundreds. 

But the fearful flutter in your heart soon subsided as the blue flag of Alexandria raised above the militia, their silhouettes coming into view. They were led in triumph by the king, flanked on either side by Duke Richard, and one man you did not recognize—Prince Jesus of Hilltop. In your father’s hand was the chain that leashed his mighty companion, Shiva. They were victorious, and no more would you fear Negan, nor walkers, nor death itself. Not when your knight was near. 

Not even death could tear you from him, and as you held his gaze, you felt a calmness overcome you—a relief, as though you knew that everything, somehow, would be all right. 

~

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[gracieheartspedro]

I Can See You

fem!reader x dbf!joel miller

Hi friends! It's been awhile (:

I am back to writing! This time, I'm planning on having many parts to this story. It's a DBF Joel Miller story, which I love to read, which means I had to write it, right?

I wrote this with no Y/N, instead each character gives her a nickname/pet name.

So here's Part 1, I really hope you enjoy!

Word count: 2.7k

Warnings: DBF! Joel, age gap-ish (reader is 25, Joel is 39), eventual smut, joel being a little bit of a perv, reader not having a filter, alcohol consumption

“Mornin’,” His Southern accent was even deeper than usual. My head peaks up from behind my computer, noticing his very tired eyes. The bags under his eyes still somehow did him justice. 

“Mornin’ Joel,” I mutter before taking a sip of my coffee. I watch as he finds his way towards my bosses office. He was only my boss at work, but at home he was just Dad. 

I watch his ass move in his jeans, shamelessly. 

Finding your coworker hot is one thing, it’s another when it’s also your dad’s friend and he was about 20 years older than you. 

I’ve thought Joel Miller was quite the looker since I was about 18. I had just started working for my dad. I was mainly just scheduling and doing work orders. Joel took me out to a work site one day, on my father’s request. He wanted me to get know some of the people who would be scheduling work from us. I got to sit around with the property manager of an apartment complex in a tight black dress in the dead of summer, watching guys replace windows. While outside that day, Joel worked alongside some of the laborers, his tanned skin and shaggy dark hair glistening with sweat. Something about him doing manual labor turned me on. Something awoke in me that day, and ever since then, I thirst over him in silence. 

I catch myself looking a bit too long, quickly averting my eyes to my computer screen. I act like I am typing something, glancing over to Joel and my dad walking out of his office together. They are discussing another project that Joel was overseeing that would keep him very busy in the upcoming months. 

“My girl here will be starting back at college in the fall, so she will only be part time for awhile,” My dad says, drawing attention to me. 

“Oh really, where ya going?” 

I blank out completely for a moment.

“UT Austin,” I finally answer.

“Smart girl, you living on campus?”

“Nope, just getting my master’s in Engineering so living from home makes the most sense.”

Joel shakes his head, “Master’s. Didn’t you just graduate high school?”

“I’m 25, Joel.”

His eyes scan me for a moment, realizing I’m much older than he remembers. 

“Ha,” He grumbles, “Time flies huh, Steve?”

“Sure does, you just wait for that Sarah of yours is off to college,” My dad laughs, slapping Joel’s shoulder. I wince, realizing again he has a young daughter. It wasn’t ideal, to say the least. 

“We got about 5 years on that,” Joel says, his eyes returning to mine, “Well it’ll be nice havin’ you around during our busy season.”

“Happy to help,” I reply, not really meaning it. 

“Hey, Joel, you and Sarah making an appearance at our BBQ this weekend? We invited the whole neighborhood and I can’t remember if you told me you’d be there.”

His eyes are still on me, “Yeah, I’ll be there,” his eyes return to my dad’s, “Just me and Tommy though, Sarah is goin’ over to a friend’s house.”

“Can’t wait!” My dad cheers, “Baby girl, can you make sure my schedule is cleared Friday evening so I don’t have to worry about when I can get the meat?”

“Of course, dad,” I grit my teeth, “I’m on it.”

-

“Hey baby girl, can you go grab me some extra plates?” 

My dad was over the top with his BBQs to say the very least. The whole neighborhood was in on it. Steaks, burgers, hot dogs, chicken, the whole thing. I spent all morning getting the huge backyard and cabana ready for all our visitors. We usually had someone come over to do all the setting up, but Dad made sure to remind me that I was living rent free and being paid on his payroll, so setting up was the least I could do. 

People littered the pool and backyard. I weave between people, giving smiles and welcomes where I could.

I walk in to the kitchen, the cold AC air hitting my bare arms. Luckily, I was wearing shorts over my bikini shorts, or else the goose bumps would be up and down my legs, too. I begin searching the cabinets for the large serving plates you always used for big gatherings. Leaning down, my triangle bikini top almost lets my boobs loose. I sit up straight, messing with the knots on my back. I knew tightening it could only help so much.

“Need help?” I almost jump out of my skin. I turn quickly, spotting Joel Miller standing in the kitchen with me.

“Shit, you fucking scared me,” I breathe loudly, patting my chest to make my heart stop racing, “I think I can get it.”

“Mhm,” He sticks a tooth pick between his teeth, “Lemme help, girl.”

God he was so fine. I hated myself for having a crush on him. But the domestic and simple gray t-shirt that hugged his arms so well and the blue jeans? I simply could not resist staring. 

No chance in hell. But I got to look at him every day and imagine it. 

I turn on my heels, holding the ties out to him so he could tie them. 

“I need them tighter,” I mutter, “Don’t want these puppies falling out in front of the Adlers.”

“Don’t want to excite Mr. Adler too much, he may have himself a heart attack.”

I smile to myself, biting my lip. He ties it, his fingers grazing my bare back slightly. 

“All good now, girl,” I turn to face him, looking up at him through my eyelashes, “Now what were you lookin’ for?”

“Serving plates,” I explain, “Dad is finishing up those steaks, needs more space.”

“Well let’s get ‘em and head out to all the fun,” He says, ducking down to the cabinet I was looking in originally. He finds them, handing them up to me. He looks so good looking up at me from this angle. 

“You want to grab us some beers,” I suggest, “I’ll meet you out there?”

“Your dad runnin’ low?”

“Probably, so grab three.”

–

“So, you going to be here all summer?”

I had no interest in talking to Tommy, but he was keeping me from toeing the line with Joel in my drunken state, so here I am. I sit in my lounger chair, wanting so bad to take off my jean shorts. I knew if I did, Tommy would take it as I’m making a pass, so I sweat extra. 

“I’m starting college in August, so yeah I’ll be around the office and staying home.”

He smiles, “Good to hear, love seeing you around.”

I smile back faking a cheery laugh, “Thanks, Tommy… care to grab me another beer?”

“No problem, sweetheart.”

I watch him walk away before searching the crowd for Joel. I spot him across the yard, talking to one of the newer neighbors. A single mom who moved in two months ago. My dad kept joking the other night that he’d be making her my stepmom, which only made me gag. She was beautiful, younger than my dad, but just about Joel’s age. 

A pang of jealousy rises within me. 

Joel finally catches my wandering eyes. He smiles gently, giving me a nod.

“Here, darling,” Tommy says sweetly, “Need anything else?”

“Yeah, actually,” Your brother, “Can you help me with something?”

“Sure, ‘s up?”

I sit up, leaning over making my boobs hang right in his eye line. 

If I couldn’t keep one Miller’s attention, maybe I could snag second best. My beer filled brain thinks about how they are cut from the same cloth, so they both are probably good at this. 

“Do you want to help me change a lightbulb?”

He raises his eyebrows, “I guess, where at?”

I smirk, “My bedroom.”

We sneak away, my eyes scanning the area. It didn’t appear as anyone was following us. My room was the last room on the left upstairs, so the anticipation as I guided him down the hallway was killing me.

Ever since Joel grazed my back earlier, I’ve been ready. So fucking ready. 

“Are we actually changing a lightbulb?”

I open my door for him, gesturing to him to follow me in.

In the dim light, Tommy was very cute. He was a sweet guy and I knew he’d be the first to jump on my idea. 

“You tell me,” I say, starting to untie the knot Joel tied. In my moment of trying to be sexy, I realize Joel tied the stupidest and hardest knot ever. Tommy notices my struggle, reaching around me, frantically trying to get the top off.

As it gets loose, I reach up to grab his neck.

“What the fuck is going on ‘ere?” 

His voice freezes me. Tommy looks towards the door in horror.

“Joel-“

“Tommy, you fucking know better,” His voice is so intimidating and scary, I cant even muster the courage to turn around, “Git.”

Tommy gives me eyes saying I’m so sorry, and I just stare blankly at my wall. I hear Tommy’s foot steps run down the stairs. I realize how drunk I am because my wall paper begins to move on it’s own. It doesn’t usually do that. 

“Now you,” His stride towards me is quick, “I’m not your Dad, but don’t think he’d like you fucking his employees.”

Maybe it was the liquid courage, “Who said I was trying to fuck him?”

I snap my head towards his stern and impossible to read face.

“Bullshit,” He spits, “He got through my knot, he assumed somethin’ was about to happen.”

“Well, even if that’s where it went, why are you putting your nose in our business?”

He chuckles darkly, “So now it’s ours, huh? I have you know, girl, Tommy’s business is my business. And you’re just makin’ my job hard.”

I tiptoe closer to him, “And what’s your job, again, Mr. Miller?”

“Make sure people are behavin’ themselves.”

I realize what he’s doing. My tipsy mind took a second to search his face for more, but I can't read him at all. 

“I’m behaving, Mr. Miller. I promise,” I reach up, touching his jaw, “No more funny business.”

It was the closest I had ever got to him. I felt a rush just touching him.

“Good, get your top back on and come down to the party. Your dad is looking for you.”

I look down at myself as he leaves the room. My fucking tits are out, and he didn’t even look down.

The game he was playing was not the same one I was playing.

–

The next morning, I have a pounding headache and no drive to leave my room. I was embarrassed and horrified. I knew I would have to face Joel and Tommy on Monday morning, so I had to make amends beforehand. I really didn’t want them to tell my dad and I was pretty out of line for trying to fuck Tommy when Joel wasn't giving me the attention my drunk ass thought I deserved.

After spending hours in bed, rolling back and forth thinking of a script to say, I figured that honesty is the best policy. 

Well, honesty with a little bend in the truth. 

I get showered and dressed. My usual summer time outfit was a crop top and short shorts, but today I needed to be more… conservative. 

I find a nice summery dress, that went to midthigh. It was yellow, not a lot cleavage, floral. Innocent. 

When I get downstairs, my dad sits in the living room, his feet propped up watching the news. 

“Where ya going, baby girl?” 

“I’m going for a walk,” I lie. 

“Wearing that?”

“Yes,” I nod quickly, “Do you need anything while I’m out?”

He shakes his head, “No, have fun, I guess.”

I could tell he was suspicious, but he wasn’t one to pester me too much. He had high expectations for me, but I always exceeded them. He never questioned me too much, unless it was about school. He didn’t even really care about my love life. He always got excited when I told him I was going on dates in college. I mean, I rather him be excited than bother me about the guys I was seeing.

I start my journey to Joel’s. I didn’t even know if he was home or not, I was going on blind faith.

It was hot as shit and I was not fully prepared to walk to his house in a dress and sandals. 

I could’ve just driven there and back. But no, I decided to roast in the hot summer sun.

–

When I arrive to his house, I just kind of stand in his driveway, catching my breath. He was home, his truck was here. 

I walk to the front door, knocking first then ringing the door bell. 

It takes about minute, but he gets the door. 

And he’s shirtless. 

It was the worst and best moment of my entire life. 

“What are you doing here?”

And it’s not quite the response I was anticipating when I arrived at his door. 

“I uh-,” I hear some stirring inside the house, which causes me to peak my head past Joel’s shoulder. 

I see movement, but my eyes find Joel’s again before I could focus in on it. He pushes me back a bit, coming outside and shutting the door behind him. 

“I came to apologize, but you seem busy.”

He shakes his head, “Not busy, just woke up.”

“With someone?”

What the fuck? Why can’t I shut my mouth?

“Pardon me?”

“Well I walked this whole way to apologize about my inappropriate behavior yesterday,” I explain, “But yeah, that’s it.”

The door creaks open and I am wholeheartedly anticipating a hot MILF or something. But instead, it’s a little girl. 

“Sarah, get inside!”

“Oh hi, I know you!”

I smile at the girl. She was cute, I had to admit. She looked a bit like Joel, mainly the smile. A smile I wasn’t too familiar with, because he wasn’t too keen on my jokes. Ever.

“Yeah, I work with your dad,” I explain, “Nice to see you, Sarah.”

“You too, do you want to have lunch with us?”

“Sarah she can’t st-” 

“I’d love to, only if your dad says it’s okay.”

He got himself in a pickle, but I was aching to have a conversation that didn’t involve me putting my foot in my mouth like I almost did again. Plus, some food and water would help the heatstroke I felt coming on.

He stares at me, almost like he wished I’d disappear, “Of course, come in. Sarah is making sandwiches.”

“I hope you like turkey and cheese!”

—

“Thanks for the sandwich, Sarah,” I say, wiping my face making sure I didn’t have mustard left over.

She smiles with her mouth full, “You’re welcome!”

“Hey Sarah, why don’t you go get ready for swim practice,” He suggests, “Me and your new best friend need to have an adult conversation.”

She looks up at him annoyed, “I guess, but don’t scare her away. She has a cool pool I want to swim in.”

I laugh out loud, “Yeah, don’t scare me away, Joel.”

He doesn’t laugh, he just looks at me with his lazer eyes. I just wish Sarah a farewell and shut my mouth, waiting for the storm. He stirs, eating another bite of his sandwich. 

“So you came to apologize, huh?”

I swallow, “Uh, yeah. I’m sorry for my inappropriate behavior. I had one too many yesterday.”

He nods, “Yeah you were practically falling out of that top of yours before you took Tommy upstairs. Surprised you didn’t have it off before then.”

My eyes widen, “Well that’s humiliating.”

“Don’t think anyone was particularly mad about it,” He says, “Maybe one of those neighborhood watch moms, but who cares about ‘em?”

I can’t help but smirk. Was he insinuating that he wasn’t mad about almost seeing my boobs?

“Yeah, they always give me the most disgusted looks when I’m out jogging.”

“Cause’ they miss bein’ young and beautiful,” He explains, “All their husbands stare, too.”

I can’t believe he’s talking to me like this, I find myself leaning in a bit to try to talk quieter. It seems like this is conversation we should be whispering to each other.

“Do you stare?”

Foot. In. Mouth. 

He smirks, giggling a bit. I finally got to see him smile.

“Of course, I do.”

----

Hehehehe tell me what you think! I'll be back with part 2 soon!

[hanakoofthejungle]

Another HuskerDust Hazbin Hotel fanart because I am obsessed with these two.

Speedpaint process below:

This piece is based on the fanfiction, Wicked Old Soul by BunnyBight. It is also a Overlord Husk AU fic but has its own distinct and captivating plot. I highly recommend.

The scene comes from Chapter 24 where Husk and Angel host an engagement party for Asmodeus and Fizzarolli, and of course they have to dress the part :))) in other words, excuse for me to draw Husk in a fancy suit and Angel in a beautiful dress.

I took a lot of leeway in interpreting the clothes.

BunnyBight describes Angel's dress as "made of a black shimmery material. Not sparkly, it was too subtle to be called that. The top of the dress wrapped over one shoulder and under the other. It fit snug to his body until it hit his hips where it then draped straight to the floor. The front of the dress had a large opening. The left side of the skirt fell straight down but then another layer started at that hip and crossed in front to end at his right ankle. His entire left leg was bare as was the bottom of his right leg." So I was thinking of silk chiffon as the material for the blouse/bust and first layer of the skirt and taffeta silk for the bodice and second dress layer. As both fabrics has shiny property, they would look a bit more grey than black as opposed to Husk's wool suit. I added a layer of pearlescent watercolor on top to make the dress shimmery but it doesn't show after scanning. Check out my speedpaint Youtube short to see how it shines under the light. The dress is also supposed to have gold and red playing cards embroidery, but I was lazy.

Angel's necklace is the centerpiece of the outfit, '[t]he necklace was an intricate design of many small black diamonds and seven large rubies, all set in gold [...] It looked like something royalty would wear." So I went ahead and based the necklace on Empress Elisabeth of Austria's ruby parure. I saw the necklace in her portrait by Georg Martin Ignaz Raab while visiting the Schönbrunn Palace some years ago. There are exactly 7 rubies in this fanart and some small black diamonds. The details do not look good up close since I was drawing on a small A5 size paper and this is the best I can manage with tiny tiny jewelry. BunnyBight also mentions a pair of earrings that go with the set, but I don't know where the ears of a spider locate so I replaced those with a matching hair ornament.

"Husk was wearing another three piece black suit with gold pinstripes and buttons. His gold bowtie looked fabulous over the red shirt he wore with it." I found that when executing all these details on paper, the suit would look very busy and lack an emphasis. Hence, I instead put Husk in a pure black double breasted suit, kept the red shirt and placed all the red, gold and black color in the tie as the highlight of his outfit. I couldn't draw the tiny "little gold and red playing card cufflinks at his wrist" (again the limitation of traditional art on small paper) so I replaced the with heart shaped gold cufflinks. A nice allusion to Husk's wearing his heart on his sleeve just for Angel, which was definitely my plan all along and not just mere coincidence. I skipped Husk's fancy top hat and cane because I was lazy. One very wrong detail in this whole outfit is Husk's ring which he doesn't get until Chapter 36 :((.

The background is just me freehand drawing that tapestry with card symbols and other motifs appear in Loser, Baby and the marble column.

[posttexasstressdisorder]

The GOP’s 43-year tax-cuts-for-billionaires-while-we-ignore-the-needs-of-the-country grift has an analogy in condos and homes across America that might help voters understand how it works and how they’ve gotten away with it.

Fully 84 percent of all homes and apartments built and sold in 2022 came with a homeowner’s association (HOA), and an estimated 27 percent of all homeowners nationwide currently live in a property controlled by an HOA.

And many are very unhappy about the experience.

According to a survey by Rocket Mortgage, only 47 percent of HOA residents think their HOA has made their community better, only two-thirds (64%) believe their HOA “honestly handles its finances,” and one in ten people nationwide who have an HOA cite the HOA itself as their main reason for moving.

How and why is this?

Louise and I have lived in five communities with HOAs in two different states. Three (including where we now live) were well managed, kept up the community, and set aside money from the dues every month for the inevitable future maintenance. I was on the board of one of them. The other two ran, essentially, a shell game or reverse Ponzi scheme, which led us to eventually quit those communities and move.

READ: Deep-red 'Republican stronghold' thought to be 'easy win for Trump' is now a swing state

I remember attending a board meeting in one of those “shell game” HOA communities we’d lived in. There were multiple common-area maintenance issues needing attention, but a group who called themselves “low-tax conservatives” had run the board for over a twenty years.

There was almost nothing in reserves, so maintenance had been continuously postponed until things hit a crisis level. Then they’d hit us all with a series of “special one-time assessments” ranging from a few hundred to a few thousand dollars to pay for the upkeep. They refused to raise the monthly HOA fee, referring to it as a tax, because, they said, they were “low-tax conservatives”; in fact, they were just cheapskates.

That HOA board had been, in the past and the present, stealing from future homeowners.

They did it so they could enjoy the community during the first 30 or so years — when maintenance costs were minimal — without setting aside money for the future, when things would rot or wear out and need replacement or upgrade.

For the first three decades, they were able to coast with $200/month in dues and no assessments; by the time we arrived when the units were pushing 35 years old, though, the assessments were hitting $3000 to $9000 a year, and, when the buildings’ roofs need repair (soon) it’ll be twice that amount or more.

Fortunately, once we saw the handwriting on that particular wall we were able to sell our condo and move to a well-run community. Americans, though, don’t have that option: Republicans have been running this same shell game or reverse Ponzi scheme against all of us (except the very rich) across the entire country ever since Reagan successfully pitched trickle-down economics to the nation in 1981.

If you’ve ever lived in one of these shell game HOA’s, you now perfectly understand Reaganomics and why it seems that America has deteriorated so badly over the past 40 years.

You could call it the disaster of pothole economics: all across America, roads, bridges, water systems, schools, and other vital public infrastructure have been underfunded and neglected ever since Reagan popularized the idea of “austerity” among Republicans.

In order to pay for the second most massive tax cut for the morbidly rich in history (Reagan cut the top tax bracket from 74% down to 25%), his administration cut spending on education, housing, roads and bridges, and pretty much every other aspect of America’s infrastructure. George W. Bush did the same thing, and Donald Trump tripled down on the scheme.

The result was a $51 trillion transfer of wealth — over a mere forty-three years — from the homes, retirement accounts, and savings of average working families into the money bins of the extremely wealthy. Thirty-four trillion of that transfer show up as our national debt, which was a mere $800 billion ($0.8 trillion) when Reagan first came into office and started this scam.

President Joe Biden and his Vice President, Kamala Harris, ran the first administration of either party to significantly repudiate Reagan’s neoliberalism by injecting trillions into rebuilding our nation (over 35,000 projects) while raising taxes on rich people and corporations to pay for it.

The result was immediately visible, just like in the 1940s, 1950s, and 1960s: we now have the best economy on planet Earth with unemployment lower than any time since the 1960s (and lower than any time in history for women, Blacks, and Hispanics). Inflation has been at or below 0% for the past two months and is annually running around 3% (Reagan never got inflation below 4.1% in his entire 8 years); all across America we’re putting our rural areas, towns, and cities back together.

For the past forty years, Republicans and their administrations have focused almost entirely on taking cash away from working class people and handing it off to the billionaires who own and finance their party. At the top of the list of ways they did this was a series of five tax cuts for the morbidly rich and big corporations adding up to over $30 trillion since 1981.

But they’ve also been cutting spending to compensate for their tax breaks for the billionaire class: They blocked extending the child tax credit this year, throwing millions of American children back into poverty. They’ve fought lifting the cap on Social Security taxes so people making over $168,600 will begin paying on all of their income (millionaires and billionaires currently pay only a tiny fraction of the percentage to support Social Security that the rest of us do).

Fully 100% of congressional Republicans voted against Biden’s Build Back Better program that’s now putting America back together and his American Rescue Plan that lifted millions out of poverty and put millions more back to work. They successfully blocked the Paycheck Fairness Act that would have penalized employers for wage discrimination based on gender; they’ve refused to expand Medicaid in almost a dozen Red states; they even filibustered an attempt to raise the minimum wage from $7.25 to $10.10.

For the past forty-plus years, Republicans — just like these dysfunctional HOAs — have been stealing from America’s future; our infrastructure deficit alone is several trillion dollars, meaning Americans will be paying more in taxes to make up for all those decades of neglect.

Democrats want those tax increases to hit people earning over $400,000 a year; Republican tax proposals, on the other hand, mostly focus on increasing income taxes and fees on working class people while continuing or even expanding tax breaks for the very wealthy.

One of the “low tax” HOAs we used to live in, instead of raising their monthly fee or instituting an assessment, recently negotiated a million-dollar-plus 20-year loan with people’s properties as the collateral to fund painting and repairing serious rot on the buildings.

This should have been paid for with an increase in HOA fees twenty years ago, anticipating the future maintenance and upkeep needs.

But instead they kept the fee low, never built up a reserve, and are now borrowing from the bank. In other words, they’re continuing the all-too-common HOA board scam of requiring future generations to pay for current repairs, just like the GOP budget proposals we’ll see when they return from summer vacation in September will require future generations to pay for their past tax cuts.

It’s the equivalent of Reagan, Bush, and Trump jacking up the national debt to keep things glued together, forcing future generations to pay it off when the bill comes due, while their wealthy corporate funders rob us blind.

Homeowners across America are waking up to these toxic HOA boards, as social media sites for HOA members are forming and local homeowner uprisings are happening against boards, either replacing the board members or, in some cases, even suing them. Some states are even starting to require they build up reserves for future maintenance.

Hopefully, Americans will realize how successfully Republicans have inflicted this very same scam on voters and working class people over the past forty-plus years and vote the bums out this fall.

ALSO READ: Mike Johnson's now-deleted Trump social media post sparks controversy

[judesmoonbeauty]

Fairytale Final Assessment 1st Anniversary SE: Jude Jazza's POV Bitter End ཐིཋྀ

Fan translation only. Not 100% accurate. Please expect grammatical errors. Cybird owns everything. Feel free to re-blog, but please do NOT post my translations elsewhere. Translation notes are marked with *** Alternate translation is marked with/// Hour Glass Banners Credit: @/natimiles ཐིཋྀ

Running through the bay, I opened the doors of the warehouses with a fine-tooth comb.

(……Where the hell is she?)

Then I heard a noise in one of the warehouses.

Jude: ……

When I opened the door, I found Kate confronting the man with a gun in question.

Kate: Jude…..and Ellis.

Bowler Hat Man: Jude Jazza! I never thought you'd come to me yourself.

Bowler Hat Man: God must be on my side!

Bowler Hat Man: Now, I can take my revenge.

Kate had a scratch on her cheek, indicating that she and this chestnut had a scuffle with each other.///Kate had a scratch on her cheek, indicating that she and this clit had a scuffle with each other.***

Kate: This is not the person you were referring to Jude. 

Kate: You were setting me up for a game that you knew I was going to lose from the start.

Kate: So, this was an unexpected accident. Isn't it?

Kate: Because this person you once sent to the lab shouldn't be here.

Jude: That’s right.

Kate: Then change the game.

Kate: If I can catch this person, you’ll sign the consent form.

(What are you saying at a time like this? If you get killed while you're doing that...)

(Ha. This girl….. What kind of look in her eyes does this girl have at a time like this?)

Despite the gun being pointed at her, Kate’s eyes never give up.

She looks straight at me and smiles at me with a radiant glow in her eyes.

Even though a gun was pointed at her, she had no fear of death in her eyes.

I saw in her eyes what Kate was trying to do.

(How brazen is this princess?)

Kate is smiling as if she won't die even if he kills her.

(A good look…..)

(Then let's see how you do.)

Jude: Yeah, I'll sign anythin’ ya want if ya catch this guy and put a bullet in him.

Bowler Hat Man: Hah, what a horrible man. He only thinks of you, his lover, as nothing more than a pawn.

Bowler Hat Man: When you die and are reborn, choose a better man.

The man puts his finger on the trigger and applies force.

Jude: ……..

But of course the gun can't fire a single shot.

Bowler Hat Man: What?!

A moment later, Kate slams into the man's torso as hard as she can, and he tumbles to the ground in a tangled heap.

FLASH BACK

Ellis: It's not a real gun, it's a replica.

Ellis: It’s used by replacing this gun with the opponent's gun or pretending it is a real gun.

Kate: I see.….It looks like it can be used in many ways!

FLASH BACK ENDS

Before we arrived, during the scuffle, Kate had swapped her own replicated gun with that guy’s gun.

Bowler Hat Man: This….let go of me!

Kate: I won’t let you go, I have to get his signature!

Kate: Besides.

Kate: Jude will never forgive anyone who plays with people’s lives!

Kate: He's so vindictive that he'll chase you to the ends of hell and torture you….!

(You're telling me.)

Kate screams as loud as she can while clinging to the man.

Kate: So…… you will never get away with it, ever!

Kate: As a fairy tale keeper, I can't tolerate someone like you either.

Bowler Hat Man: Shut up…….!

Jude: Kate, keep a tight grip on him.

When the man tried to take out a knife hidden beneath his wrist, I kicked it away and then broke his jaw.

Jude: Makes a nice sound, like musical instrument. 

Bowler Hat Man: Argh….stop…..ugh…..

Jude: Ya hurt someone's property, there's no way I'm gonna give ya a pass on somethin’ like this.

Jude: Ellis.

Ellis: Yes, I’ll tie him up with rope.

Supervisor: Mr. Jude, everyone. Are you okay?

Jude: Ya know it when ya see it. Send this guy back to the lab. 

Jude: Now you're invited to a tougher place.

Supervisor: You’re indeed callous, Mr. Jude! Then, please leave it to me to send this man back.

Kate: Ah!

Ellis: Kate, what’s wrong?

Kate: The condition for signing the consent form was that if I catch him and got a shot in, so…...

Kate: I'm sorry, excuse me for taking a shot!

Kate slapped the man as hard as she could on the cheek.

Kate: Oh, and Jude and I are not lovers, so please let me correct you there.

Jude: Fuha, stupid……

Jude: Ellis, you're gonna help me take this guy to the lab.

Kate: What……..wait a minute, Jude!

Jude: What. Ya gonna quit bein’ a fairy tale keeper after all?

Kate: Eh……

Jude: A promise is a promise.

Kate: Then!

Jude: What's with that dumb face? Ya wanted my signature, didntcha?

Kate: Oh, I want it. Please sign it!

Kate: Phew, I did it! I'm glad I persisted!

Ellis: Good for you, Kate.

(It's really disgusting…..)

As I walk, I light a cigarette, inhaling and exhaling deeply.

(A person's life is as fragile as a candle's flame.)

(Trust and a sense of justice are meaningless in the face of malice and murderous intent.)

(I understand that kind of thing better than anyone else.)

Even though I struggled to protect them, I felt despair because I couldn't protect them.

(I should've.)

Kate: Jude….

Jude: Whaddya still have to complain about?

Kate: No, just the opposite!

Kate: I realized I forgot to mention something important.

Kate: Thank you for helping me out. Also, I look forward to working with you in the future!

Kate bowed deeply, then raised her head and smiled.

(Don’t smile like that.)

(It's the hardest thing to wake up to - when someone like you dies…...)

I dig my thumb into the wound that lingers on Kate’s cheek.

Kate: Mm….ow!

Jude: Lemme tellya somethin’, smart princess.

Jude: A continuin’ agreement doesn’t guarantee permanent employment.

Jude: Which means I can demand ya be fired at any time.

Kate: What?!

Jude: If ya don't wanna be fired for dereliction of duty, work like a cart horse.

Jude: Poor thing, ya don't feel at ease at all, do ya?

Kate: ………

Kate: That's what I want!

Continuing to be the fairy tale keeper, this woman, will be by my side tomorrow.

There is so much malice in the world that you should spit it out and throw it away.

Everything about it is disgusting.

(I know, but)

(I'm the one who likes this woman’s determined eyes - and that's what disgusts me the most.)

***Translating this line on my lunch break made me choke literally. Here’s the deal: クリ can be rendered as ‘chestnut’ and/or ‘clit’. Could Jude have called this guy a chestnut sarcastically? Sure. However, looking at the context of the situation, he is pissed that Kate has a scratch on her cheek, and it makes more sense to me that he called him a ‘clit’ instead. I did further research and it seems that chestnut and squirrel are used together in a derogatory sense since squirrels like eating chestnuts…..if you get my drift. I decided to include both, so you can choose what you think he said.

[Previous] [Master List]

[readypanda]

Indigo Park Spoilers (and very long post) ahead

Since Indigo Park is the newest fandom I've been dipping into, I figured I might as well make my own analysis for the game. The question I'll be discussing today is,

WHAT EVEN ARE THESE THINGS?

(sry for bad picture quality lol)

The thing I find interesting about these mascots (Molly, Lloyd, and what we've seen of Finley) that kind of sets them apart from other monsters in the mascot horror genre is...they almost seem like they're just animals. (I'll go over evidence for this in this post)

Think about it. In other mascot horror games, we've gotten:

animatronics possessed by dead children

employees/kids surgically(?) turned into toys

people mutated by a giant ink machine

animals/people who have had their DNA spliced with a mutagenic chemical

A little girl somehow turned into a monster (I think??)(really sorry Amanda I don't know what you are)

etc.

(I'm not up to date on all these properties and I know there's many more, so forgive me if my lore understanding is less than adequate. you know how it is with indie horror)

The important note about all these is that for the most part, these mascots are intelligent, or at least have the capability of intelligence. Almost everything on this list was at one point human, in fact.

So why do I think Indigo Park is any different? What leads me to believe they aren't intelligent? (at least, the animal versions of the characters that we run from in the game. Whether they are separate from the versions of the characters Rambley interacts with is something I'll touch on later)

I think the most obvious piece of evidence in regards to Molly and Lloyd (again, not much info on Finley yet) is how Lloyd acts. He doesn't talk at all, he just stalks the main character and attacks like an animal might (with the exception of a couple times he stands on two legs or props himself up here and there).

As for Molly, I hear you saying, "But she talks! We hear her speak!" And yes, dear reader, you are right. Molly does speak. This would disprove my argument of the mascots being purely animalistic, if it weren't for this kill screen.

Now, do we ever actually hear Molly say something that isn't a repetition or couldn't reasonably be a repetition? Has she said anything to prove her intelligence at all? (genuine question here because I haven't examined every one of her voice lines lol. If I'm wrong about this then whoopsie!)

Despite the past 250 words of speculation, though, whether they act just like animals isn't actually that important. We'll see more of them in later chapters anyway (or Lloyd and Finley at least) so that will likely prove or disprove this point with time.

The more interesting question is, what are they? Like, physically?

When Molly dies, we clearly see blood around her decapitated head. At the very least that rules out animatronics or something mechanical. In addition, in the audio of the hidden tape you get when you show Rambley one of the collectables, you can hear two staff members complaining about being replaced by "new mascots" right after they "got a new raccoon costume." This could mean a few different things, but it seems to imply that the mascots we see in this chapter are meant to be replacements for actors in suits (for meet and greets, promotion, shows, etc) and/or replacements for limited, expensive, and cumbersome animatronics. If this is true, we can also probably rule out them being human. Unless Indigo Park also had a secret human experimentation lab, which I wouldn't put past them.

I think it's too early to definitively state what these mascots are, but based on the evidence of above, I have a theory.

My personal theory is that these mascots are just animals who have been changed or mutated in some way to allow the park to have more "realistic" representations of the characters (also probably to cut down on the costs of paying a human employee). That would explain why they act the way they do and why they are so violent. They literally are just wild animals who have been warped to represent these cartoon characters.

Another important caveat to this theory is that, if this is true, then the mascots who attack us in the game are most likely NOT Rambley's "friends" as he knows them. That would explain why he doesn't call attention to Molly chasing us or Molly's dead body (with the exception of one very small reaction when he talks about the mascots). You would expect him to seem a little more upset if he thought that was his friend, but maybe on some level he knows it's not really her, just a representation of her.

That brings up another question, which is a can of worms I won't fully open here: Do Molly, Lloyd, and Finley have sentient "AI" equivalents like Rambley? If not, does Rambley know his friends aren't real? I'll let you decide.

Anyway, that just about closes my thoughts on this silly raccoon game. Thanks for letting me ramble on about it, and thanks for making it to the end of the post!

Lemme know about your own theories in regards to what these things are, or if there's any key evidence I missed. Kinda threw this together lol. Most of it will likely get disproven by future chapters but hey, thus is the price of theorizing ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

[letomills]

Download all (big archive): Mega or Download AF only: SFS | TF only: SFS | EF only: SFS

Edit: part 2 is here, part 3 is here, part 4 is here.

Medieval and fantasy dresses for TF, AF and EF. Each age group gets one mesh and the same 233 recolors. The TF and EF recolors can be either standalone or repo'd to AF. This is the foundation of a multi-part project: subsequent parts will give you body shape conversions of these dresses, with all recolors either standalone or repo'd to AF.

The AF mesh is my edited version of iamliz13's alpha-editable gown. The TF and EF meshes are my conversions of that edited mesh, both on new files. AF and TF have fat and preg morphs, EF has a fat morph. Polycount: 3,260.

All textures were initially made by the very talented people credited below. None of this is reuploading other people's work however, as I edited almost all textures and all recolor files properties. I did make those edits on the AF recolor files of the original creators whenever I could, so that you can replace my edited recolors with the originals if you prefer and still benefit from the repositorization.

Mesh previews, swatches, credits and details under the cut.

The meshes

The AF mesh

Iamliz13's AF alpha-editable gown mesh has already been edited by others (I know Dicreasy made a preg morph edit) but if I was going to convert it for 10+ body shapes, I had to get very familiar with it and make sure it was to my exacty liking. So I made my own edit. If you already use Dicreasy or anyone else's version and you want to stick with it, that's no problem since I used the same file. Just make sure you delete my AF mesh.

What I edited: • there was a row of vertices at upper lap level that didn't have the smoothest bone assignment, that's been fixed • the hips were narrower than the standard Maxis AF shape, I widened them to match • remade fat and preg morphs, in line with the Maxis AF shape.

Here's the result, on a recolor that makes use of the alpha part around the abdomen and then on one that doesn't (click to enlarge):

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The TF and EF meshes are new meshes on new files, converted from the AF mesh.

TF ↓

EF ↓

~~~

The recolors

Edits I made: • many recolors had some skirt texture bleeding on the left thumb → that's fixed • almost all recolors had issues with the shoe sole and/or underskirt texture not matching the mapping quite right → that's been fixed (you can't tell the difference on a standing or sitting sim but it shows when they're relaxing on a bed or a lounge chair) • most recolors had their shoe sounds set to barefoot → changed all of them to normal shoe instead • many recolors had blank bump maps unnecessarily inflating file sizes → that's been cleaned up • some AF recolors were also enabled for EF → they are now YA-AF only since I made proper EF conversions • changed sortindex numbers so that sets appear one after the other in an order that made sense to me.

All recolors are compressed and tooltipped (not mfBSOK'd, sorry if that's what you prefer). Swatches are included.

1. iamliz13

Recolors 1-6 are categorized as everyday, 7 & 8 are categorized as everyday and outerwear.

Original textures are iamliz13's AF recolors.

~

2. Sherahbim Formal Witch

Categorized as everyday, formal and outerwear.

Original texture by Sherahbim. Morganna recolors taken from here.

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3. Sherahbim Misc

Autumn witch is categorized as everyday, formal and outerwear. Texture by Sherahbim.

Green sleeves is categorized as everyday and formal. Texture by Sherahbim.

Herb woman is categorized as everyday and outerwear. Texture by Sherahbim.

Medieval witch is categorized as everyday and formal. Texture by Sherahbim. I edited the cleavage to be less deep, to hide that there is no realistic dip in the mesh in between the boobs.

~

4. Sherahbim Elven Dress

Original categorized as everyday and formal. Texture by Sherahbim.

The Van recolors are actually my edited versions of these. There was a visible seam on the sleeves that I found awkward to fix so I got rid of them and did something else instead. They're categorized as everyday only.

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5. Sherahbim Heart of the Forest

+ 50 recolors by Meshy:

Categorized as everyday and formal.

Original texture by Sherahbim, @mrs-mquve's recolor is from here, Nabila's recolors are from here, Meshy's recolors are from here. I tweaked exposure and saturation on several of Meshy's recolors.

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6. Sherahbim Widow

Categorized as everyday and formal.

Original texture by Sherahbim. The black is a quick recolor by me. Morganna's recolors are from here.

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7. Sherahbim Royal

+ 50 recolors by Meshy:

Categorized as everyday and formal.

Original texture by Sherahbim. Bethgael's recolors are from here. Meshy's recolors are from here.

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8. Sherahbim The Lady

All Meshy recolors:

Categorized as everyday, formal and outerwear.

Original texture by Sherahbim. Meshy's recolors are from here. I edited Meshy's recolors 1, 2, 3, 4, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 16, 19, 22, 25 and 26 by replacing the bright white sleeve and underskirt bits of texture with Sherahbim's "aged" white bits.

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9. AlmightyHat The Modest Lady

All recolors:

Categorized as everyday, formal and outerwear.

Textures by AlmightyHat, based on Sherahbim's The Lady.

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10. Beryllium

Recolor 1 categorized as everyday and outerwear, recolors 2-8 categorized as everyday and formal.

All textures by @berylliumsims. I increased the contrast on recolor 1 and darkened the wrist hems.

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11. Arthelope

Categorized as everyday, formal and outerwear.

Textures by Arthelope (originally for TF only) + I added sleeves taken from AlmightyHat's The Modest Lady.

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12. 12Raben

Last but not least, party dresses! Categorized as everyday and formal.

Textures by @12raben, except I edited the sleeves. If you prefer 12raben's version, feel free to replace my AF files with theirs and my repo'd TF and EF will adapt.

~~~

If you're not a fan of the clothing categories I chose, you can change clothing categories in bulk using the Outfit Organizer or the BSOK editor. The latter will also let you mfBSOK everything, if you want.

~~~

And that's it for now. I hope you're happy with the selection of textures I picked (many thanks to the original retexturers and recolorers!). Iamliz13's dress has been recolored so many times, I could have added even more but I had to draw a line for the sake of my sanity. To be honest I'm already pushing it lol. Let me know if you see an issue that I missed or if you have any questions.

[moonlits-ocean]

Long Way Home [Part III]

[Azriel x Reader fanfic]

Synopsis: Y/n is the daughter of a healer in the city of Velaris. After a small incident, she moves to the House of the Wind to work for the High Lord, Rhysand. Everyone in the house seems to welcome her except Azriel, the second in command. Even though he is just blankly polite and does not acknowledge her much, she can't help but fall for him. Does Azriel return her feelings or remain unfeelingly aloof?

─•~❉᯽❉~•─

Read Part 1 here.

Read Part 2 here.

─•~❉᯽❉~•─

Part III

A few months later, Star fall was to commence soon. 

Excitement was in the air, and I was looking forward to it too. Rhysand and Feyre were going to host a party, and preparations were already underway. Everyone pitched in to help between their usual duties, chattering about the outfits, the food, song and dance.

Mor and Feyre repeatedly asked me about my outfit for the event. I remained evasive, since I had no plans of actually attending the party. I'd be watching the sky from elsewhere. Even though I helped with the preparations as if I was going to attend, I was gradually emptying my quarters and shifting my things to an isolated property outside the city. This property was situated in a river valley backed by the large mountains surrounding Velaris. It was an inheritance passed down in our family, and I had remodelled the villa and the gardens with the help of my dad. It was a perfect place to avoid others, and I loved it very much. Father, on the other hand, didn't like to be alone for long periods of time and didn't visit it much. 

While I was still in the process of shifting my things, I started sleeping less in the nights. I stayed awake at the kitchen table with a hot cup of tea, working my anatomy drawings or study notes. The one thing I'd miss when I left was the library, so I tried to make extensive notes and copied important paragraphs from the books I read. 

One night, I decided on a change of scenery and took my materials to one of the many balconies, making myself comfortable on the thick carpet. As usual, I had some tea in my favourite cup and lots of lamps to illuminate my work. 

I had placed the tea-cup along with a glass jar of coloured pencils on a side table so that I wouldn't accidentally knock them off with my elbow. Leaning against the balcony railing, I was copying a detailed anatomical diagram of an Illyrian wing in my journal. 

A sudden gust of wind knocked over the table and shattered the tea-cup and glass jar. I jumped, dropping my journal as I watched the carpet soak up my drink and pencils scattered everywhere. My favourite cup was broken to fragments. 

Azriel appeared before I had the time to think what to do next. 

"Oh, sorry," he pointed at the shattered pieces.

I sighed. The glass jar could be replaced, but the tea-cup was from one of a collection set of my mother's. It hadn't broken into very tiny pieces, though. Maybe I could put it back together, even if it couldn't be used. I could use another cup for drinking and keep this one back in its shelf. 

I unfolded a drawstring pouch from my pocket and gathered all the pieces. Azriel helped by collecting the remains of the glass jar and the scattered pencils. The tea stain on the carpet couldn't be helped.

He didn't leave immediately after we finished, so I offered him a cup of tea while I brewed some for myself. He accepted, and soon enough, we had our own mugs of the hot liquid and sitting next to each other on the balcony floor, looking out into the night.

He cleared his throat. "That cup was important to you."

I nodded. A tendril of his shadow flickered near his neck, and slipped out of sight. "It's from a set that belonged to my mother."

His expression dropped from his usual polite blankness. "I'm truly sorry. If there's any way I can help fix—"

I held up a hand. "It's alright. I'll fix it by myself later on."

I was curious as to why he had appeared here. He had never actually come to a place I was in out of his own volition. I asked him about it.

He did not give a direct answer. "You weren't there in the kitchen. I was looking for you everywhere."

I fell silent, turning over his reply in my mind, unsure of how to proceed. Meanwhile, he laid down his mug and picked up the journal I used for sketching. This journal in particular was just pages and pages of anatomical Illyrian wings with the parts labelled and side information. I had drawn them in every possible angle and technique I could think of. 

He slowly thumbed through the pages, his own wings slightly trembling in the breeze. 

"These are really accurate," he commented as he stopped at one of the pages. His eyebrows went up, and I leaned over a bit to see what he was looking at. 

It was a shaded sketch of a pair of hands, with the palms turned up. And they had scars on them. Azriel's hands, which I had drawn one feverish night from memory. Fuck. 

I straightened, cupping my own mug with both hands and intensely staring at it, determined not to face him or acknowledge the drawing. My ears and neck turned hot with embarrassment. He stayed on that page for a long time before closing the journal and carefully keeping it on the carpet between us. 

"Why the wings?" He asked after a while. 

I shrugged. "I miss having them."

"What happened?"

I narrowed a side glance at him. "I'm sure you know what happened."

One corner of his mouth tipped up. "I do. But I'd like to hear the account from you."

I shrugged. "Nothing much to tell. Father was sent on a mission. Mother was already dead by that time and he had to take me with him since there was nobody else at the time to look after me. The task went wrong, and the enemy soldiers ripped off both our wings and left us to die. Only, we were somehow revived and brought back to life. It was quite a while before I learned how to properly balance myself without my wings."

"This was during the war, yes?"

"Yes."

He turned to me and gave me a once-over. "Your mother was not Illyrian."

I nodded. "She was a high fae from the Summer Court. It's a thing in our family's ancestry. We come from a long line of powerful healers, and not all our mates are Illyrian. She survived my birth, even with my wings, but she died during the second along with the child."

Noticing the sadness that crept into my voice, he changed the subject by pointing at my journal. "Why my hands?"

I blushed, turning away from his inquisitive gaze. "I find them beautiful, that's all."

He opened his mouth to reply, but stood up abruptly, his head cocked to the side as if listening to something. 

"I have to go."

Going like this only meant one thing. "Is Elaine in need of help?" My voice sounded strange to my own ears.

He was on his way to one of the archways, and halted mid-stride. "Yes. Why?"

I shook my head, motioning for him to leave. "It's nothing. Go on. Don't let me keep you."

He took a step towards me. "But—"

"Just go."

He left.

─•~❉᯽❉~•─

I took a nap right there on the carpet until the early morning rays warmed my skin. When I was awake, I started gathering all my things to go back to my room. Cassian appeared and waved at me as I stood up, my arms weighed down with the books and the empty mugs. 

"Good morning, my chicken soup."

I laughed. "Morning, Cassian."

During my stay, Cassian had once fallen ill with a stomach problem and wouldn't eat anything and spat out the medicine. I mixed all the herbal concoction in some chicken soup, its flavours masking the bitterness of the herbs and fed it to him until he was better. From then on, he started calling me his chicken soup and always came to me in case of injuries and other illnesses. 

He took some of my books and started walking me to my quarters. "I've fetched you breakfast, its in your room."

"Thanks."

When we reached my room, we unloaded our things on a table and I sat on a chair, keeping the breakfast tray on my lap. He took a seat on my bed and thoughtfully chewed on a piece of fruit. 

His wings were gently fluttering and I couldn't stop staring. 

"How does it feel to fly?" I asked in a low voice. My wings were ripped before I could do so.

His eyes softened. What happened to me and father was not a secret, everyone knew about it. He suddenly grinned as if he had a great idea. 

"What if I show you, instead of describing it?"

I didn't know what to say. "Um, I don't know, I'm a pretty chubby woman, I might be too heavy for you to—"

He groaned dramatically. "Oh, come on. I will be put to shame if I can't carry you!" He stood up. "Finish your breakfast. I'll take you right now."

─•~❉᯽❉~•─

Tags:

@kalulakunundrum

@thelov3lybookworm

─•~❉᯽❉~•─

Read Part 4 here.

Thank you for all the responses to my previous two parts of the story!

This fanfic can also be found in Wattpad, along with other exclusive parts like playlists and pictures. Here's the link: https://www.wattpad.com/story/358573037-long-way-home

Happy reading! <3

─•~❉᯽❉~•─

[portraitoftheoddity]

House ownership so far

I moved in at the beginning of May and it's been.... a project. This house is earning the title of my problem child, lol.

So far, I have:

Seemingly gotten rid of the mice (fingers crossed)

Discouraged the scouting carpenter ants (FUCK OFF YA LITTLE BASTARDS)

Removed soooo many spider webs. (I don't hate spiders, just don't want 'em *inside* my house thanks.)

Cleaned up a truly apocalyptic quantity of mouse poop and sterilized so many surfaces. I needed a shop vac for the basement. I still haven't cleaned out one part of the basement that I'm dreading, and need to vacuum the attic.

Replaced all the locks, which involved a chisel to get the strike plates in a place where the deadbolts would actually connect

Caulked up so many holes

Got a plumber to replace the leaky water heater valve

Got a quote for new fencing (mom got bored and came over and tore down the rotted out segments of fence and pulled up the shitty wire fence out back, which I helped her roll up.)

Replaced the stove, since the mice had colonized the old one and rendered it unusable

As of today, I have adequate water filtration so the water comes out clear and is safe to drink! And I don't have to fill up from my parents' well or the town spring.

Tore down the wallpaper in one of the upstairs rooms (now my office) and repainted the wall

Repainted the living room/dining room/front hall where the walls were scuffed to hell

Installed doorbells

Deep cleaned the most disgusting side door I've ever seen

Got an EMERGENCY plumber because the bath faucet broke and wouldn't turn off at 10 at night. X_X

Assembled a medicine cabinet, but haven't hung it up yet

Assembled a new bookcase. Because priorities.

Called the electric company about getting the rotting trees removed that are in danger of falling on THEIR power lines that run through my property (need to follow up)

Have a basement guy working on stabilizing the foundation from the inside by sealing up the crack and adding carbon fiber supports

Put down a deposit with a landscape contractor to install drainage to lessen further foundation issues from water pressure flowing down the hill I'm on

Repainted the guest bedroom, and assembled a bedframe for it

Installed hook latches for the upstairs doors whose knobs don't latch because they're 75 years old

And honestly I feel like I've barely had the chance to touch anything since I am also working full time and freelancing part time on top of that and my job is nuts right now. I have a whole color coded spreadsheet of everything I need to do. I want to repaint both bathrooms and the kitchen, I need to hang the damn medicine cabinet, I want to build a pantry cabinet in the kitchen so I can turn the front hall closet I'm using as a pantry into a hall closet, I want to set up the basement as a chill out den, and there is sooooo much work to do outside I'm trying not to freak out about it because apart from keeping the lawn mowed, I'm trying to relegate most of it to "next year's projects."

I'm so tired.

[unsanitarystation]

What if Magnus' obsession with his captain pissing everywhere is a turbofox thing. Maybe it sets off all the wrong territorial protocols in him. It's like Roddy is going around marking his territory all over the place. Which actually shouldn't be a problem. He is the captain after all. So what if Roddy wants to make the captain's chair and his office and his habsuite with his scent, right?

Well it turns out it makes Magnus really want to mark things as his. All these long buried protocols beg him to mark his things, his space, his property, his- his mate- (what mate???) Every time his olfactory sensors pick up on the scent of Rodimus' waste fluid, it reminds him HE should be doing that. Magnus should be pissing on his stuff too. How else would anyone know they belong to him??

It gets even worse when he actually catches Roddy in the act. Seeing his captain voiding is so much worse and triggers some kind of. Competitive marking protocol. Something tells him that if he were standing in the boundary of a territory, and he saw another fox marking their side, he should do the same to establish where it ends. It sets off so many urges that Mganus neither knew he had nor wants. The pressure in his waste tanks strikes him so hard that really the only way he deals with it is to grab the captain and attempt to force him to stop. Clearly he's dealing with it all fine. He's not going back to his own habsuite later and literally shaking at the thought and need to void his own tanks on his berth to mark it as his

The worst of it all is that whenever he catches Rodimus making a mess of himself, drenching his own panels and joints in his own stupid fluids, Magnus immediately feels the need to replace that scent. He wants that scent to be his. He wants to grind his panels against his captain as he empties his waste tanks, making sure the scent soaks his captain, gets into all his seams, making sure everyone would know who the captain belongs to-

Which makes absolutely no sense by the way. Magnus has no idea where these thoughts are coming from. Why would he want-

hrghh god, i always miss the piss asks, this was actually a big surprise to find when i checked the inbox on pc ahdgsgdjs

Yeah.. yeah, Magnus’ turbofox instincts playing up is such a good explanation for his obsession with Rodimus’ piss. Well, right after "Magnus has a weird kink and can’t deal with it normally". He should be sweating uncontrollably every time he thinks about Rodimus’ messy habits of pissing all over his bed and captain’s chair, his tanks feeling uncomfortably full all of a sudden. But he cannot mark his territory, just think of the emabarrassment...

god, i just need Magnus so piss himself so badly. Let him succumb to the turbofox instincts and start leaking, maybe without even realizing he’s doing it...

[noxturnals-void]

My Dearest Shadow

Jason Voorhees x GN! Reader

Pt. 1

(It might lean fem at times but I’m going to try my best to keep it neutral for everyone!)

I don’t know how many parts there will be so just hold on for the ride. ♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎

Tw: stalking, anxiety, paranoia, jason shenanigans

2,311 words below the cut

You had renovated a little house your father had told you about, one you didn't even know existed two years ago. You spent lots of time fixing it up, lots of money, and tireless days doing the work by hand, and still, you weren't done. Thankfully, most of the difficult, labor-intensive parts were handled with the help of a few hired people.

Supposedly, the house lying on the outskirts of a small town in New Jersey had been abandoned for the past 20 years, belonging to some old couple before they moved into another state and left the place to rot when no one wanted to buy the house because of some superstition about the land. It went up on the market after they died and sold for 50,000. It was a concerningly low price that your house-flipping father had taken advantage of.

He hadn't even visited the property in the years he had owned it, let alone told you about it until you mentioned wanting to set up a little getaway spot on the east coast. He had told you the details, and you decided it was exactly what you needed—a new project to focus your energy on. But you were woefully unprepared for the beast of a job you'd just signed yourself up for.

A year and a half was much longer than you had intended to spend fixing this 1000-square-foot cabin cottage, but it was well worth it. It was a beautiful location, nestled right into a vast landscape of dense, private forest with a breathtaking lake view partially in the kitchen and living room windows- a 10-minute walk away. When the sun hit just right in the mornings, it was like a fairytale. A golden bath of warm, welcoming rays wakes you up better than any cup of coffee could ever.

You'd finally gotten in all of the furniture you wanted, having to space out the hauls between a few months at a time. The house was built for one or a singular couple. There was a small porch, redone with fresh wood and a chair set on the front for guilty pleasure moments outside in the late morning or early evenings. Walking into the cabin, you were put immediately into the living room- two chairs positioned apart and pointing toward a smaller flat-screen television tucked away in the corner of the room on a low shelf for your collection of films.

Even with just you living there, the two different chairs were comforting- one more rough, textured, and firm and the other plush and soft, letting you choose depending on what you'd rather sit on to binge a show or movie for the night. To the other side of the room was the entryway to the kitchen, an open-concept attempt at a cozy space. The bedroom was on the other side of the living room wall, housing your queen-sized mattress and more personal furniture and belongings. There was a short hallway leading to the utility closet with the newer models of washers and dryers, which you could get your hands on for less money, and your newly renovated bathroom.

Lots of the house seemed to have gone with age. Things like the kitchen and bathroom floors had to be pulled up and replaced, everything deep cleaned twice over for good measure, and lots of rounds with exterminators and pest control; the first few months paid off in the long run. Admittedly, you felt bad for killing the tiny creatures. They were just trying to find shelter in the large ecosystem at your doorstep.

You'd managed to get a shower and bathtub combo in the more narrow bathroom; glad to have both options when you felt like it. The house already had surprisingly high ceilings, and you didn't mind that the shower head was a bit out of reach because of its design. A little color coordination here and there and most of the cottage was done up in shades of deep, calming, and comforting greens and blues with lighter accenting greys to keep it not so claustrophobic.

Most of your focus went to the outside of the house now. Finished with most of the inside work, you could now turn your detail-oriented self to the withered outside. With some much-needed love and care, you hoped to fix the paint job into a lovely grey blue and pick up some new windows to replace the old and cracked ones you'd been having trouble with.

Really, it should have occurred to you sooner to repair them, but you'd gotten yourself too busy with too many things at once staring out, and you'd put it off for far too long. Last winter had been a nightmare because of those stupid cracked panes, and you were definitely not about to live through that mistake again.

You'd just gotten the garden sorted out. It was something you'd planned for since the beginning, but you had to put a lot of elbow grease into making it work. You had picked up the bulk of the materials last week, including the young plants and seeds you'd needed, along with the mulch and moist dirt.

Now, you were on your knees, elbow-deep in fresh, damp dirt, making shallow holes for the seeds. You sat back, breathing in and sighing out.

It was a lovely day today despite getting a later start than you wanted. The air was crisp and cool, about 60 degrees out today. It was supposed to get chilly the next few weeks and then warm back up before the end of fall. Then came all the rain and possible snow.

You weren't used to the weather of New Jersey yet, but honestly, it was a nice change from California. It didn't really get cold until January, and summers could get pretty hot, but it rained, and the rain was always welcome, in your opinion. It was nice to get snowy Christmases, too. It reminded you of northern Cali, so tree-populated and the air so intensely fresh, that you had to admit it was nice to get away from the city life for a while.

This little adventure had opened your eyes to many things you were missing- yourself included. You'd never spent so much time alone, at least not since childhood. You'd always had friends, roommates, and a busy college life or cityscape to keep you preoccupied. Out here, it was just you, the weekly check-in from your father, the homely woods, the picturesque lake, and... whoever had been living around here watching you.

You'd seen the shape of someone lingering around a few times. At first, you brushed it off. Working hard every day had its downsides, and you thought you were just way too tired to see it properly. It was probably just a deer or something, you convinced yourself.

But after the first month, you couldn't ignore it anymore—the feeling of eyes on you when you walked past some windows, the other presence as you walked through some of the nearby woods. It was always quiet, though, and truthfully, you'd never seen whoever it was close enough to convince yourself fully.

When you'd mentioned it to your father about six months into living here, he'd told you that you must have been paranoid. There was no way anyone lived that far away from the tight-knit town, which was 30 minutes away. The whole forest, including the old camp he had never mentioned before, had been abandoned for years.

You took it upon yourself the next day to walk to Camp Crystal Lake. It took a while, and again, you felt eyes scanning you, searching you for something, or maybe just dissecting you under its gaze. You tried to shake it off, but it didn't help to ignore it. You often scanned through the trees to find the owner of the eyes, but each time, you found nothing. You began to worry that maybe the isolation had been affecting you differently than you thought. Perhaps you had been paranoid over nothing. Maybe you'd been alone out here too long.

You didn't spend long at the neglected campsite. Honestly, it felt wrong to be trespassing in the first place, especially when you had no reason to be there besides foolish curiosity. Many of the cabins looked incredibly run down, the wood rotting and falling away and the forest taking over much of the paths and steps of the place. You had your fill of satisfied curiosity after just an hour of poking around, finding strange things you didn't expect. Notably, some belongings that were from probable teenagers who'd visited. It wasn't surprising to think kids would dare each other to spend the night since it looked so creepy in the first place.

You should've gone straight home, but you felt drawn to the lake. Admittedly, you hadn't visited as much as you wanted. You went down to the pier of the lake, walking out to the far end and taking in the clearer view of the lake against the beginnings of a sunset. It was beautiful, and you almost thought about watching the sun go down but decided against it when you realized you had no light to try to walk back to the house. That and the idea of walking through those woods with those unwavering eyes still on you the entire way made a chill go up your spine.

You got home soon after that, just before dark, yet even in your own house, it was hard to shake the feeling of being watched. Not just by windows anymore, all the time... The second you stepped outside, the eyes followed your every move. It made it hard to live normally until winter came. The feeling of being observed 24/7 stopped completely for the few weeks it got into the tens and twenties, which was an even more unsettling thought.

Maybe it had been a real person, and it was just too cold for them to linger and creep on you. You hadn't forgotten about the campsite or the eyes that stuck to you for a while afterward. But it still made it unsettling when the feeling started up again in early spring.

Part of you was weirded out that you never felt entirely alone, but as the weeks went on, it was almost more of a... comfort. Whatever it was- whoever it was had never harmed you, and the stare it gave off didn't feel dangerous. It almost felt curious, maybe protective? Something out there in the woods was watching you, yes, but it was also watching over you.

You'd had the odd few occasions of falling asleep in random places and waking up in entirely different places. It only happened twice, and you were careful that it wouldn't happen again. You’d been dreadfully tired that particular week, and the physical labor of building a deck by hand had taken its toll on you. You'd fallen asleep outside on the halfway constructed porch drinking tea the first time, trying to keep yourself awake long enough not to mess up your sleep schedule. It didn’t work. You later awoke in your living room, a thin blanket pulled over your legs.

It freaked you out at first—the idea that someone had moved you and been inside your house. But after a thorough, slightly panicked search through the cottage and realizing no one was around and nothing was touched besides, well, you—and your now cold cup of tea—you calmed down. You mulled over it for the rest of the week, not understanding why whoever it was had decided to take care of you like that.

The second time wasn't as much of an accident; you'd fallen asleep outside again a little more intentionally than before. You simply tested if it were to happen again. It did. You woke up again on the chair with a blanket, the same as before, but this time, you were noticeably less clean than when you’d fallen asleep.

Whoever it was left fingerprints of dirt on your waist and thighs where they had picked you up and carried you. Most of your clothing on one side was significantly grime-coated, and that was enough to make you decide not to try it again.

You wiped your brow with the back of your arm and finished up planting all of the seeds you wanted. You were saving some to plant next spring in case these didn't make it through the winter, just to be safe. You got to your feet, wiping your hands down your dirt-covered jeans and huffed, stretching out your sore back. As you did, a twig snapped, and you froze in place, wondering whether or not to turn around toward the tree line behind you.

In normal circumstances, you would have checked immediately, figuring it might have been an animal. But you felt those eyes on you, those same eyes that had followed your every move for the last year and a half. Your paranoia got the better of you now, and the idea of seeing whoever had been watching you this entire time made your stomach turn to mush.

Your eagerness got the better of you, and you turned around despite the loud thumping in your chest. There was nothing at first as you searched through the closest trees. A figure quickly moved to the side at the edge of your vision- a very large figure. You gulped, scanning the tree line and focusing on a thick tree trunk hiding the person well. Whoever they were, they were most definitely right there, and to your knowledge, this was the closest encounter you'd had with them while awake.

You tried to think of something to say, pondering if you should have said anything at all in this tense moment.

What were you supposed to do…?

[sea-salted-wolverine]

Does Alaska have no building codes?? But there are so many earthquakes! Is it more the building codes just aren't enforceable? And/or more or less no restrictions on your own property?

Super complicated question, uh, short answer is outside Anchorage, everyone does whatever the fuck they want.

If you want to sell your property the title office won't record until an inspector comes out to make everyone aware of any issues but it's more of an informed consent thing because you're not required to do anything about it to make the sale. Restrictions are a nightmare to nail down because if it's not immediately an obvious problem, (like if a building is too tall next to an airport), then it's a bitch to even figure out who set those restrictions and if they have the authority to enforce it.

This is about the goose creek cabin, which for reference is this guy.

This is in the jurisdiction of the city of Talkeetna. I think. That's the closest town anyway.

Talkeetna had a cat for a mayor for a while. I'm pretty sure the kitty died in office and I don't think anyone has replaced him yet, feline or otherwise. That's the level of government going on here.

The cat does not care about building codes and it's not like this guys neighbors are gonna complain about him.

[arece]

Walking Parallels

♤ John Wick x platonic!f!reader (father/daughter duo) series masterlist

(𝟹)

♤ Summary: The Bowery King has his secrets. (2.2k)

♤ Warnings: John Wick violence, death, injury descriptions

♤ a/n: I'm not really liking this part, but I have big plans for the next!

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You were really starting to hate this car the longer you had to spend cramped inside. Your head was lent against the window, slowly watching the scenery outside, attempting to get through the usual New York traffic. 

Dog was laid out across the two seats next to you, head plopped on your lap as you scratched between her ears. The drive was relatively silent, John seemingly coming up with a plan for your next course of action.

You couldn’t help but have a swarm of guilt fill you up over the thought of that stupid pin. If you were focused, not acting like an idiot, it would’ve never been taken from you. You adjusted the sweater you were wearing - or what was left of it. Everything you were wearing was destroyed, ripped, and filthy from the events of the past few days.

“You can change at the house.” John’s eyes meet yours through the rearview mirror. You nod, threading your fingers through Dog’s fur. You watched as you passed row after row of modern houses of the extremely large and wealthy variety. 

“You live here?” The skepticism that leaked from your tone caused a huff to escape him. “Being a hitman pays well.” You smushed your face against the window, watching as he pulled into one of the biggest homes on the street. “Maybe I should get in on that.”

John opened the car door, Dog immediately leaping from your lap and heading to the front door, “no.” You pulled open your own door, spinning around to take in the entirety of the property. The front garden was large enough to hold three homes.

“You say that a lot,” trailing after him to the front steps. He unlocked the door, leading you inside. It was all very… white. “I didn’t take you for the flashy type.” He paused for a moment at the counter.

“I’m not the one who designed it.” Imagine having enough money to design your very own mansion. Before you could interrogate further he led you to a guest bedroom, handed you some clothes and showed you the bathroom to shower.

You stayed in the shower longer than you probably should have, the sting of the water cleaning out your scrapes and cuts was oddly comforting. Looking in the mirror You didn’t really recognize yourself, feeling like you’ve managed to change into a completely different person in such a short amount of time.

You finished cleaning up, carefully replacing the bandages the Doctor gave you before wandering around the home in search of John or Dog. At the top of a set of stairs that you assumed led down to a basement sat Dog.

She whined and you gave her head a pat, beginning to cautiously venture down the stairs. John was ready faster than you, now dressed up in a different suit. He was knelt down by a removed floor board, pulling weapons from underneath.

“I feel underdressed,” you announced your presence, though he was probably already aware you were there. “It’s kevlar.” He didn’t look up from digging around, you sat in front of him with crossed legs.

“What’s that?” You tried to reach for a knife but he swiftly pulled it from your reach. “Means it’s bulletproof.” The casualness of the way he said it shocked you more than the suit itself, “Can I wear one?”

He strapped a few of the knives and loaded the guns before moving on to a duffle bag. “I don’t have one in your size.” The compartment he opened up next caught your attention, distracting you from any previous thoughts.

It was multiple rows of the very same gold coin you’ve seen him exchange, hundreds of them. You moved beside him, picking one up to closely inspect, “if you have so many of these, why’d you need the one Aurelio had?”

He carefully grabbed the coin from you and placed it back in its spot. “I didn’t.” He locks everything back up and throws a large duffle bag over his shoulder, “come on.” You follow up the stairs, Dog now joining you.

He brings you to a room in the far back, an oversized gym area. Throwing down the duffle, he unzips it to pull out a gun, handing it to you. You freeze with the small hand gun in your grasp. “Thought you wanted to learn how to protect yourself?”

“I do,” you slightly stuttered. You fixed your grip on the gun trying to mimic how you’ve seen him do it. He slightly adjusts your movements before nodding in approval. “Now, shoot that bottle,” he points across the room.

“What?” You snap over to him. He’s quick to push the gun out of his face, “don’t shoot me, shoot the bottle.” You aimed the gun downwards, now much more mindful of your surroundings, “why are we doing this now, what about what you said before?”

John pulls your arm back up and guides you through the steps of properly aiming the gun. “We’re going to be out in the open, I’d rather you know how to shoot them and not yourself.” It took a few shots before you hit the bottle but after that you gained the hand of it.

He taught you basics with the knife and defense moves, saying how that was more important for you at the moment than attacks. By the end you felt like you were dying, rethinking about joining him in the hitman lifestyle, nice salary or not.

Resting in the kitchen, John was getting you some water before you had to leave. From the corner of your eye you catch a photograph of a pretty woman smiling brightly at the camera. You pulled it closer, “who’s that?”

John peered over to see what you were talking about. You could see a hint of anguish in his eyes but his expression showed reminisce, “my wife.” You looked back to the photograph and tried to picture the two together. “She looks so… normal.”

John smiled and slid the glass of water over to you, “that’s because she is.” Your brows furrowed, you hadn’t seen or heard of any woman before. “How’s she okay with what you do?” John grabbed the picture from your grasp and ran a fond finger down its length.

“I stopped for her.” Your confusion grew as he placed the photograph back in its place. “This doesn’t seem like you’ve stopped, does she know?” Maybe not your business but it was weird, the way he talked about her.

“She doesn’t need to know, she died.” You froze while he grabbed a few things from the duffle before leaving it behind. You felt bad for bringing it up but he didn’t seem too bothered talking about her. “What was her name?”

“Helen,” he gives you a knife, carefully strapping it to your side. He warns you that it’s all you're getting now and not to mess around with it. 

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Taking the subway was not what you thought when he was talking about dangers. It was pretty underwhelming to say the least. For the last hour you’ve driven John insane, taking his ear off with every thought that came to mind. 

Then you questioned him about what Addy had said earlier, after he had done what? He finally told you the entire story about his wife, Helen and how he returned to being the infamous John Wick for what happened to his first dog.

“I’d do that for Dog,” you sighed, thinking about the puppy you had to drop back off at the Continental. John laughed, “you’d be the first to agree with me on that.” Next was to learn about the man you’d be seeing, the Bowery King. 

He sounded dramatic and judging by the slight twinge of ire on John’s face you’d guess your right. You eagerly jump from your seat when the train stops, completely done with the annoyingly long ride.

You and John made it to a rather empty area of the station when you’re shoved back by a guy. You were about to tell him off when he grabbed you by the arm, trying to yank you further back as six other guys approached John. 

You begin yanking at his arm but when he threateningly pulls out a gun you run on pure instinct. Reaching to your side you grab ahold of the knife John gave you, pulling the man's arm down by the elbow to give you the perfect advantage to stab him center in the chest.

Guilt tries to crawl up at you before you remember that he tried to kill you first. You gaze around to see John had already taken down three of the guys, now fighting two as the third turned to shoot at you.

You throw yourself to the ground, pulling the gun from the body, taking aim and shooting - with your eyes closed. You open your eyes when you hear the guy cry out. You had shot his arm holding the gun, good enough.

John whips around and throws his knife straight to the guy's throat. You grimace for a moment at the squelching sound it makes, “I gotta learn how to do that.” he jogs over to you, urgently checking you over, rubbing away at the blood on your skin and checking the back of your head to see if you hit it again.

“I’m okay,” you promise him. He checks you over once more, pulling you into a half hug and breathes a slight sigh of relief. You close your eyes, melting into the contact. It only lasted a moment before he slowly got up, taking you with him.

He reaches for one of the gold coins he stowed away, flicking it at a homeless man that’d watched the scene intensely, “take us to him.” The man stood up, revealing a gun with a silencer attached that he kept hidden the entire time.

He led you both through a secret tunnel system while other homeless disguised men ran to collect the bodies you two left in your wake. John made sure to keep you close to his side as eyes were once again glued to you.

You were guided to a rooftop where a man was caring for a large amount of pigeons. He turned to see you guys approaching and held his arms out wide, “John Wick, as I live and breathe! Still not good at retiring I see.”

“Bad habits,” he shortly answered. You leaned over John and the man burst out into dramatic laughter when he caught you peeking, “the street rat who killed the Spade’s heir, I didn’t expect you to be so young.”

“Not so bad yourself, old man.” You grunted as John shoved you back behind him, the Bowery King laughing again, though this time more menacingly. “You’d best be careful, a contract will be placed on you soon and from what I’ve seen so far, it’ll be a lot of money.”

John moves over to him before all of his men whip out their guns on you. You throw your hands up in surrender, eyes widened in shock. “What brings you here to my kingdom, Mr. Wick?” He releases the pigeon he was petting.

“Why does he talk like a theater kid?” Your mumbles were caught by a nearby guy and he snorted, quickly looking away when the Bowery King turned to you both with a glare. “We’re trying to put an end to all of this,” John guides his focus back to be solely him.

“Tell me, why would I help you and lose the possibility of all that money?” He hummed out rhetorically. John was already done and leaned closer without a care of his henchmen's threats, “because she’s a kid,” he gritted out. 

“I don’t see how that affects anything-” The Bowery King was interrupted by one of his men leading two others that held two Spade men in their grasp. They were half conscious, being dragged in by the men holding them.

“What is this?” He demands. The leading one nods and the two Spade’s are dropped to the ground. “These two were found sneaking on private grounds.” The King sneered and pulled out his own gun, quickly shooting them both in the head.

You flinched back at the quick unsuspecting shots. “They think they can tread on my Kingdom?” He hissed, “now I’m pissed off. What do you need, John Wick. All for a fair price.” He kicked at one of the dead bodies, disgust painted his expression.

“The location on the Spade Pin bid.” The glint that shone in the Bowery King’s eye at John’s response made you uneasy. He knew something you both didn’t. John was aware of it too, you were sure until he agreed to his one million dollar terms.

“What? I’m not listening to bird-man, he lets pigeons shit on him for a living!”  John hissed at you to cut it out but you just scowled at the King as he laughed in delight. “I like the balls on you. It’s being sold at the Grand Pavilion.”

John handed him over a couple gold coins before dragging you out of the roof area. “We can’t listen to him, he’s hiding something,” you tried to pull back from John’s grip. He turned around, pulling you both to a stop.

“He’s always hiding something but it’s all we have so far.” He seemed to read your weary expression easily, holding both your arms now in a comforting grasp. “Like I told you. I got you, kid.”

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